Transmutation
by DarlingJenny
Summary: Sherlock Holmes has always considered himself married to his work; there's no room in his life for a woman. But over the course of a year, his opinion might change.
1. Chapter 1

AN: I wanted to finish this story before episode 3 came out, because obviously large portions of this will be canonballed, but it didn't end up happening. So I'm starting it anyway. The story begins about where episode 1 does, but was written after episode 2 aired.

o.o.o

He gives it a try, when he comes back from the dead.

It's logical that he would do so, really, when one thinks about it. His years with John have made him accustomed to companionship—just how accustomed he wasn't aware until he spent two years abroad dismantling Moriarty's network and found himself . . . not lonely, because he's Sherlock Holmes and he doesn't like thinking of himself as someone who gets lonely, so perhaps the word is nostalgic. Yes, that's it. He found himself thinking back fondly on the days of having someone there with him to share his triumphs, to laugh at his jokes and make him laugh in return, someone to bear witness to his genius. So when he returns to London and to real life, it's logical that he would attempt to recreate those days when he'd been so happy to have someone around.

And it's logical that he would have chosen Molly. John's out of the picture for now, still angry with him for the deception, and Mrs. Hudson would be useless and Gary Lestrade has his own crimes to solve. And Molly, he thinks, could turn out to be useful in a pinch; she doesn't have the instincts and physicality of John or the incisive brilliance of Mycroft or even Lestrade's sometimes-useful police authority, but she's proven herself reliable and trustworthy—see how she kept his secret for two years—and after John she's the smartest ordinary person he knows. And it certainly helps that for some inexplicable reason she harbors romantic regard for him and, if past experiences are anything to go off of, will drop everything to help him if he asks.

So he summons her to Baker Street, and asks if she will help him solve crimes. She agrees, surprised, and takes off her coat and gloves, and that's when their crime-fighting partnership almost stops before it starts because the first thing he notices is the diamond ring on her fourth finger—_moderately expensive, indicating a financially stable but not hugely wealthy fiance; wasn't wearing it at St. Bart's earlier, indicating she takes it off at work to keep it safe or because it's irritating to have on under latex gloves—_and he hesitates, just for a moment. But she already said yes; clearly she thinks the fact that she's moved on romantically doesn't mean they can't spend time together. So he ignores the ring and carries on with his work.

And for one satisfactory day it's even better than he hoped. She brings no deductions or thoughts to the table that he wasn't capable of himself, but from the few observations she does make he can tell she has the potential to contribute. She is appropriately awed and impressed by his deductions and appalled at the criminals and bad behavior they uncover. There is even a moment, at the train enthusiast's flat, where they glance at each other, amused at the man's obsession, and something sparks through the air between them—a flash of mutual camaraderie and mirth and understanding, something he's only ever experienced with John—and he realizes that he could connect with this woman, perhaps become real genuine friends and not just work associates.

But he's not so caught up in himself as to fail to notice that Molly has been slowly growing quieter, the usual brightness of her expression dimming with the late afternoon light. He's not surprised at all when she stops him on the stairs to ask what today has been about.

He lies, or at least he tells only half the truth: "Saying thank you," as though this has simply been a favor he's doing her, not an effort on his part to not be alone. She doesn't believe it, he can see; she doesn't believe that he'd do something just to say thank you. But it's true, he does owe her an enormous debt, and he feels it's important that she know he's grateful. "Moriarty slipped up," he tells her. "He made a mistake. Because the one person he thought didn't matter at all to me was the one person that mattered the most. You made it all possible."

But instead of looking gratified as he speaks, she looks more and more stricken, and he stops. There's a room in his mind palace where he files away bits of insight and advice and observations about human behavior, and this data—which gives him reminders in a voice that sometimes sounds like his mother, and other times like John—is telling him that she doesn't want to hear this right now and because of that he can't pressure her into helping him anymore.

So he stops trying to be human and simply speaks the observed truth, as he does best: "But you can't do this again, can you?"

She is tearful and apologetic and awkward, and he briefly wonders how much of her previous attraction to him still remains, but she is obviously determined to be happy with her fiance. And as she talks about this new man, the one who's not from work, he feels a now-familiar pang of that same emotion he felt those two years away from London. Nostalgia, he'd decided it was, and he thinks that makes sense in this situation as well. This is the end of an era, in a way; the era of sweet Molly Hooper always there to help in the morgue, always willing and eager and slightly blinded by her feelings, always falling in love with the exact wrong man (the humor has never been lost on him that of all the ways he and Moriarty were alike, this is one of the most unexpected, that Molly Hooper fell in love with them both). They've had an odd sort of bond between them—not the one she would have liked, but a very real one all the same—and now that's ending. He's losing her the way he lost John (m_aybe if he'd never died then his best friend wouldn't have met a woman and his devoted admirer wouldn't have met a man_) and the thought sobers him more than he would have expected.

And that's what causes him to lean down and press a kiss to her cheek (the voice in his head declares that will be an acceptable and appropriate gesture) and then he hurries away through the drifting snow. That was altogether too emotional a scene; he's been downright mawkish on more than one occasion in the last few days and he doesn't like it and it's going to stop. He can't have John and he can't have Molly and there's no one else he cares to have assist him, so from this point on he will carry on alone.

o.o.o

In the end he reconciles with John and therefore no longer needs a replacement for him, and Molly Hooper doesn't cross his mind again until one day in his flat he finds himself face to face with his double. Oh, they're not identical, but the important similarities are there; in build, in hairstyle, in fashion sense, this man could have been Sherlock's brother—if Sherlock had been blessed with a normal, blokey-type brother rather than a dangerously brilliant government puppet-master with even less use for human emotion than Sherlock has. The man's body language and proximity to Molly make it quite clear who he is, and Sherlock forces himself not to react as he leaves the room.

So Molly Hooper is not as moved on as she would like to believe, if she's engaged to his twin (though it's clear she doesn't consciously recognize the similarities or she'd be more embarrassed to introduce him to the people who know Sherlock). Sherlock has to admit he finds this revelation rather gratifying. While he'd certainly never wanted her affections, it had flattered his vanity to know that he had them, and the knowledge that she had pulled him off that pedestal and replaced him with someone _ordinary _had annoyed him a bit; not to mention, he'd been expecting a rather more dramatic choice in partner from the woman who'd already fallen in love with two brilliant sociopaths. But Tom is not an ordinary choice at all—he's an ordinary man, but not an ordinary choice.

John's seen it too. "Did you . . ."

"Not saying a word," Sherlock says. No sense alienating his morgue contact even more than her upcoming marriage inevitably will. And anyway she's so happy, and he's ruined her happiness often enough. He'll let her have this one.

But as he walks down the stairs, he can't help but feel pleased with himself for leaving such an indelible mark on Molly Hooper.

o.o.o

If he thought that was the last he'd see of Tom, he was dead wrong, because somehow over the next few months Molly and Tom become part of Sherlock's social group, much more than Molly ever was before—not a constant fixture, but he sees them once or twice a month. Perhaps it's because Mary, who has no family, collects friends like a shelter collects stray cats, and she has collected Molly. The two women talk about wedding planning nonstop when they're together, leafing through the piles of bridal magazines Sherlock now keeps in his flat, and only someone who's paying attention would notice that while Mary talks in concrete details and plans, Molly's plans are always a bit more in the abstract. It's clear Molly Hooper is in no rush to wed.

The two women clearly enjoy talking to each other, but he finds he prefers when they pull themselves away from their talk of florists and dresses and join the others, as both women are significantly better conversationalists than Tom. Sherlock has quickly come to deeply admire and respect Mary, which is a lucky thing because he couldn't be so tranquil about losing John to anyone less worthy. Molly's rise in his estimation is much slower but still steady—perhaps because he sees her far less often than he does Mary—and while he still doesn't consider her as close a friend as John or Mary or even Grayson Lestrade, he values her company far more than he does her tedious fiance's.

Tom, for his part, is as insipid as Sherlock expected; not an unintelligent man, all things considered, but not one who thinks deeply. His contributions to the conversation, which are blessedly few, clearly paint a picture of a man who is complacent, a man who is perfectly happy to simply go to work every day and the pub on the weekends, a man who has never considered how much more there is in the world than what he sees in front of his face. Not necessarily bad qualities, if a person wants a sedate and unremarkable life, but they aren't the qualities he'd have thought would please a woman who had worked, in her own small way, to fight back the dark. To use a phrase Moriarty had once accused Sherlock with, Molly is on the side of the angels. Tom, by stark contrast, keeps his feet firmly planted on the earth.

o.o.o

Being in a relationship has changed Molly Hooper, Sherlock decides a few months later; it's made her more confident, at least in his company. He supposes that now that she's not worried about trying to make him like her, she's more willing to speak her mind around him. Although maybe it's actually that she grew as a person in the two years he was dead.

Whatever the reason, it's changing their relationship dynamic, and he doesn't like it. Where once he had the upper hand in every conversation—at least enough that he could always get what he wanted from her—they're now on more even footing because Molly has started standing up to him; she now wins about half of their conversations. (He knows that most people don't consider a conversation a battle to be won or lost, but then most people are not the world's only consulting detective.)

She even goes on the offensive sometimes and is surprisingly capable of putting him on his back foot when she wants to. Not many people can get the better of him, and he both admires and is irritated by this new development in her. Of course, in his defense, she cheats; she uses his lack of comfort with social and romantic interactions against him. (Of course, in her defense, he's the one who started the cheating, by employing insincere compliments to manipulate her feelings for him.)

Case in point: when he asks for her help in calculating the exact amount of alcohol he and John can drink on their stag do. He could do it himself, certainly, but it'd be a lot of calculations and he's got other things he would rather be doing. The Molly he first met down in that morgue would have meekly agreed to do it. The Molly he came to know over the next few years would have gotten flustered and shy but happily taken the assignment. But this Molly simply looks at him. "Are you saying I'm a drunk?"

"No, no," he responds immediately, and is surprised to find himself somewhat flustered; he never meant to insult her, although to be honest he's not actually sure whether she's joking or genuinely offended at the idea. How is she doing this? How is she suddenly the one with the backbone and he's suddenly the tongue-tied one? Maybe it's got to do with the fact that while the old Sherlock would have had no compunctions about doing whatever was necessary to get what he needed from the old Molly, the new Sherlock and the new Molly have been through too much together for him to hurt her anymore. She helped him fake his death even though it meant she wouldn't see him anymore, and she kept his secret for two years, and that kind of dedication and loyalty can't be brushed aside.

Or maybe it's got to do with the fact that there's something about the way she looks today that is . . . somehow pleasing.

He's on edge, he's unsettled, and he instinctively tries to get the conversation back under his control. "You look—" he begins, before he realizes what he's doing. He's trying to flatter her again, which is a tactic he doesn't want to resort to and anyway who knows if it would even work anymore because she still intends to marry that idiot. So he finishes lamely, "—well," and now she's got a knowing look on her face, as if she knows how disconcerted he is.

"I am," she smiles.

He makes another attempt at controlling the conversation. "How's . . . Tom?" he asks uncertainly, as though the most important person in her life is a matter of such insignificance to him that he cannot even remember the man's name (_Tom Kane, 32, marketer, alternate rock enthusiast and weekend footballer, one pet dog with mild behavioral problems)_.

"Not a sociopath," she says.

"Still?" he asks, approvingly, and it's another moment of camaraderie, a shared joke and memory.

But only briefly. "And we're having quite a lot of sex," she adds brightly.

And he concedes the fight; he is not getting the upper hand back in this conversation. Defeated, he simply pulls out the folder of information, hoping she'll help him even without his coercion.

And she does, of course, because she's Molly Hooper, and even when Sherlock isn't tricking her into doing things for him, Molly Hooper is nice. He wonders, sometimes, if he could have still gotten her help for all those years if he'd avoided the manipulation and just become her friend.

o.o.o

It would surprise no one who knows Sherlock to find out that he doesn't care for weddings: too many people, too much taffeta, too much alcohol, too many lonely guests on the prowl, and too much sentimentality. Even the promise of fine music, good food and the opportunity to dance usually isn't enough to tempt him. But for John and Mary, the two people he loves most in the world, it is a sacrifice he is willing to make.

Not to mention they've put the responsibility of best man on his shoulders, and he may not like or understand all his duties but he is not going to let this wedding fall apart on his watch.

And it's not nearly as bad as expected, not at first. John and Mary are happy and grateful and the food is excellent and the speech goes well. And the maid of honor seems to take a lot of his quirks in stride, which is surprising and gratifying and although he's not necessarily interested in pursuing that, not even as a friendship, he's pleased to learn that he doesn't always make a terrible impression on strangers. And then of course there's the attempted murder, which isn't the sort of thing one should be happy to have at a wedding, but it certainly makes the day more fun.

It's not until he accidentally informs Mary she's pregnant that his mood starts to dampen. He's happy for them to have a child; that's what people tend to do when they reach a certain stage in life, and he knows they both want it. But when he jokes about how this baby will displace him as the child in their lives, it suddenly occurs to him that what he's saying is absolutely true. And the fears he's been trying to ignore for six months creep up on him and he knows that for all that John insists this won't change anything, it will, and he's going to be left alone and he doesn't know if he can go back to that and he feels lonely already, and suddenly for the first time in his life Sherlock Holmes finds himself so desperate for companionship that he sets out with the intention of flirting with a girl.

The maid of honor would be the first choice, as she's kind and possibly interested and not part of his real life so it won't make things awkward if his attempt goes wrong, but he sees she's taken his advice and started dancing with a man he pointed out earlier (_curse his observational skills_). And there's no one else; the only other unmarried woman he even knows—besides Mrs. Hudson and that is not an option—is Molly, and although he actually considers it for a moment, he quickly remembers that she is engaged.

And it feels strangely like a rejection, seeing her stand there with another man, like he had asked her to dance and she'd said no. And Sherlock Holmes doesn't usually feel hurt, and it makes him irrationally angry, and for a brief surprising moment he hates Tom and he's angry with Molly. Why is she engaged to him? Come on, meat dagger? The man is a moron and Molly knows it; it was clear as could be on her face when she hissed at him to sit down. And that's what really irritates him about that relationship. How could you possibly be with someone whose intelligence you don't respect?

And that's it, he's done with this wedding. He's done his part: he's been friendly, he gave a speech, he stopped the major from being killed. Nowhere in the rules of wedding etiquette does it say the best man has to stand around feeling like he's the only alien on the planet.

Molly glances back at him as he starts to walk away but he doesn't care. He's gone.

o.o.o

He doesn't see anyone except clients, not even Mrs. Hudson, until John and Mary are back from their honeymoon. The only social contact he does have is a text from that bridesmaid, who cheerfully informs him that she has started seeing that man from the wedding. The news unexpectedly makes Sherlock smile for a moment. But only for a moment.

The day after the Watsons are set to return, John appears in the doorway of the flat. "Get your coat," he says without preamble.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow and lowers the bow from his violin. "Why?"

"I came by to see if you wanted to get dinner with Mary and me, but Mrs. Hudson says you haven't left the flat in a week and half so I'm no longer giving you a choice. Get your coat."

And Sherlock rolls his eyes but the tiniest hint of a smile finds its way onto his face, and John smiles back, and Sherlock gets his coat.

He regrets it, though, when they enter the restaurant and he sees that Mary isn't the only other attendee: there's George Lestrade (_fine_), Molly Hooper (_acceptable_) and that idiot Tom (_not acceptable, not by a long shot_). The only thing that keeps him from expressing or at least visibly showing his annoyance is Mary's smile, which serves the dual purpose of making him happier and reminding him to be on his best behavior. So he smiles at Mary (_genuine smile_) and Lestrade and Molly (_genuine smile_) and Tom (_less genuine smile_), and he sits down between John and Tom and prepares himself for a long evening.

But the evening is pleasant, for the most part; they talk about John and Mary's travels and about the wedding and about the baby, and Tom says very little because he is busily murmuring things quietly to Molly. Sherlock finds himself strangely fascinated watching both her face and Mary's when their partners talk to them. Mary's expression is warm and open, and while he can't read everything there he definitely gets the gist and it says she's quite happy. Molly's, by contrast, becomes curiously unreadable. Sherlock doesn't have to be a detective to see that something is wrong there.

"I want loads of kids," says Tom in one of the few statements he addresses to the whole table. "Lots of little Mollys and Toms running around." Lestrade catches Sherlock's eye across the table and grimaces; Sherlock isn't sure if that's meant to comment on the ridiculous mawkishness of that statement or on the ridiculousness of happy couples in general, but it doesn't matter, as he agrees with both sentiments. What he's really interested in, though, is Molly's reaction; she becomes quite still, and her eyes dart to John and Mary, and then to Lestrade, and then down to the table. Tom glances to her, and then his shoulders move in a heavy breath, like a sigh.

Sherlock watches this all with one eyebrow raised.

o.o.o

Two mornings later finds John and Sherlock at the morgue, waiting for a cause of death finding from Molly.

"Heart attack," she informs them as she approaches where they stand. "No foul play, sorry."

Sherlock's brow furrows. _There must have been foul play—remember the state of the man's car— _and he is so caught up in his thoughts that he barely notices John has pulled out his wallet and extended a business card to Molly. "Mary wanted me to give you this," he's saying. "It's that seamstress she was mentioning the other night."

But Sherlock's not so distracted that he doesn't notice Molly's hesitation as she reaches out to take the card. John watches her, glances at Sherlock, then clears his throat. "How are things going with the wedding planning, anyway?"

"Slowly," she says, after a hesitation, and her smile looks different than normal, somehow.

That appears to be some kind of signal to John, who hesitates, then steps in close and speaks in a softer tone. "Are you two . . . all right?"

"Fine," she replies, and no one is convinced. Then she sighs a little. "It's just . . . ever since your wedding, Tom's been pushing for us to set a date, and it's getting to be a bit much. His hint at dinner the other night wasn't exactly subtle."

This makes absolutely no sense to Sherlock and he speaks without thinking. "It's not unreasonable for him to want to set a wedding date. Why call yourselves engaged if you don't intend to wed soon?"

Molly looks over at him, frowning, but before she can speak he adds, "And if you do intend to have 'lots of little Mollys and Toms' then you'll need to start soon; your childbearing years are ticking by quickly."

Molly and John fix him with identical stares of disbelief and irritation.

"What?" he asks, and he knows he's said something wrong and he hates feeling so wrong-footed and it makes him defensive. "I simply stated a fact. And for reasons I cannot begin to understand, you have agreed to marry that man, so marry him. Or if you've finally realized what a moron he is, break off your engagement and quit ruining my evenings by bringing him 'round my flat."

Molly stares, her mouth open a little in surprise, then shakes her head and leaves the room. John glares at him.

"What?" Sherlock repeats.

"Do you ever think before you speak?" John says. "Go after her and apologize."

"Apologize?" Sherlock says incredulously. "For what? It needed to be said."

John points a finger toward the door. "Go after her," he repeats, "and apologize."

And there are few things Sherlock wants to do less, but he recognizes that tone from John and he knows his friend will needle him about this for days if he doesn't, so with a long-suffering sigh and a dark look at John, he heads out the door to find Molly.

It doesn't take long; she's standing at the end of the hallway, her back to him.

"Molly," he says when he's in earshot, "I shouldn't have said that. It's not necessarily true anyway; you have at least ten good childbearing years ahead of you—"

"Sherlock," she chokes out, something between a laugh and a sob, "shut up." When she turns to face him there are tears glittering unshed in her eyes, and he sighs inwardly. Crying women make him uncomfortable. Crying men do as well, come to think of it.

"Molly," he says, softer and lower because there's something about Molly that sometimes brings out a side of him that few other people see, "don't cry because of what I said. It doesn't accomplish anything and anyway you know perfectly well I'm the last person you should listen to about affairs of the heart."

She shakes her head and wraps her arms around her middle. "No," she says, "you were right. I've been putting off setting a date because . . . I'm not sure I want to marry him anymore."

Well, that makes a great deal of sense. "Was it because of the meat dagger?"

Molly laughs shakily. "No," she says. "Yes. It's everything. It's . . . shouldn't a bride look forward to her wedding day?"

"I believe that is customary," Sherlock agrees.

She looks at the ground. "I wanted this to work so badly," she admits. "Tom is a good man. Just . . . not one I want to spend my life with." She sinks onto a nearby bench with a sigh. "I think I just wanted so badly to be married."

"I never saw the point myself," he says, sitting carefully near her. "It limits your freedom and places someone in your life that you owe something to. Someone you're responsible for. Not to mention the statistics of people who are killed or abused by domestic partners—"

"Shut up, Sherlock," she repeats, but she's laughing as she leans her head back against the wall. "That's the problem with you; you focus on the bad. But it's not just about that. It's about . . ." She turns to face him. "You know, it's having someone there instead of going home to a cold empty flat at night. It's someone to talk to and help with the dishes, and they're there for you when you're sad and you're there for them. It's waking up next to someone you love. Have you ever done that, Sherlock?"

Honestly? No. But luckily she doesn't seem to expect an answer (she probably already knows it, really). "It's _nice_. You probably wouldn't like it because it would mean letting someone into your personal space. But it's really nice. And marriage is two people saying to each other 'I love you so much that I'm going to promise to do all of these things for the rest of our lives.' How does that not sound _nice_?"

To be perfectly honest, parts of it do sound nice. But he knows quite well that no one in this world would make that promise to him; he'd end up doing something to push them away first. But Molly isn't waiting for his thoughts on her view of marriage; she's leaning back against the wall with a sigh and closing her eyes. "Maybe I'm overreacting." She winces. "And how would I ever tell him?"

And he would really love for this conversation to be over—if she's decided that something should be done, she should just do it, and anyway he is really out of his comfort zone with comforting a woman who is contemplating breaking off an engagement—so he decides to muster up one last reassurance. "As I said, I am the last person you should trust on affairs of the heart," he says. "But it seems to me that if you don't want to marry him, the kindest thing to do is tell him soon and quickly. It is not fair to you or to him to keep the engagement up any longer. And it would be even less fair to go forward with the wedding because you don't want to ruffle any feathers." He stands to go.

She lifts her arms to place the heels of her hands against her eyes. "Sherlock," she says.

"Yes?" he replies when she doesn't go on.

"Nothing."

o.o.o


	2. Chapter 2

AN: Have you ever forgotten you'd started a story? Like, genuinely completely forgotten? Because now I have. Sorry to anyone who was put out by the incredibly long wait, if any such people are out there. However, I have chapters 3 and 4 completed and chapter 5 half done (and there will be only the five chapters), so I hope to have this story all wrapped up by the end of next week, as penance for this last break being so long.

o.o.o

None of them see Molly or Tom for three weeks after that. Mary becomes quite worried when Molly responds to all of her messages with brief, vague texts and finally corners Sherlock about it. "You figure things out," she says. "So figure this one out."

He doesn't have to figure it out; he already knows. But this feels like a private affair, and if Molly wanted Mary to know she would have told her. So he tells her simply, "I believe she is working through some personal matters." Mary just scowls.

Sherlock, for one, is thrilled not to have Tom at his flat and his meals any longer, but he finds himself wishing Tom's absence didn't mean Molly's absence too. He's grown accustomed to having her around, to seeing her outside of his detective work, and it's strange to have that absence in his life. Not to mention that she's been taking time off from the morgue so if he needs to see a body, he has to get Grant Lestrade to use his police authority to strong-arm the dour-faced people who have replaced her.

Finally, one night in late June, Mary and John appear at Baker Street with news. Sherlock pours Mary a glass of the apple juice he keeps in the fridge for her now that she's not drinking alcohol, and she accepts it gratefully and sinks down onto the couch (_stiff movement that indicates lower back pain, normal in second trimester_). "It's what we expected," she informs him. "Molly's broken things off with Tom."

Sherlock nods, and Mary darts a glance over at John, who's sitting in his old chair and looking surprised. "You already knew," he guesses, and Sherlock nods again.

Mary and John exchange another glance, and Mary asks, something strangely bright in her tone, "Why did you know about Molly's relationship status before we did?"

"That day at the morgue when I made her angry—you remember, John—she told me Tom had been pressing her to set a date for their marriage and it had made her realize she did not want to marry him."

"Oh," says Mary, sounding disappointed, which makes no sense.

"Well," says John. "Poor Molly."

"Not at all," says Sherlock. "He was a tiresome man and she deserves someone better."

Mary is smiling again. "Yes, Sherlock," she says. "She does."

o.o.o

He doesn't see Molly again for another week. The thought occurs to him that perhaps he should call her up, or at least text; messages of concern and support are, he believes, generally desirable at times like this. But he can't begin to imagine what he would say, so he remains silent.

But a case takes him to her morgue and there she is, the first time he's seen her in a month, and to his surprise he is pleased to see her, even eager—something he usually only feels about John and sometimes Mary. Knowing she's only recently ended her engagement, he tries to sound kind and considerate. "Molly Hooper," he says, smiling. "How have you been?"

She looks up and smiles at him tiredly. "Hello, Sherlock. The beheading victim, I assume?"

And as she starts rifling through her paperwork, he steps closer; he's not sure what to say, but he wants her to know he's aware of what she's been through. "Was it as bad as you feared?"

And she stops looking at her papers and looks up at him, and a ghost of a smile crosses her face. "No," she says. "Yes. But it was the right thing to do. He'll see that someday."

He nods, sympathetic. "So, back to your cat and your . . . romance novels? Isn't that what single women your age do?"

"Sherlock," she says sternly, but she's smiling, "Stop talking."

o.o.o

He was right, it is different having John and Mary married. Not bad different; it just means that they all have to make an effort to see each other, which is very different from the days of old when his best friend was living in the next room over, or even pre-wedding days when John and Mary were at Baker Street every other day to talk about the wedding arrangements. Now he sees them only if they come to his flat or invite him to theirs, and when they invite him to restaurants (no more pubs, the smell is starting to turn Mary's stomach and anyway she gets bored sitting there watching everyone else drink), and when John spends some of his available evenings and Saturdays solving crimes with Sherlock.

Mary has begun inviting Molly to dinner on a fairly regular basis. "She's all alone now," she points out. "She needs company. Take it from someone who's been alone before, it's not easy."

A thoughtful quietness falls over the conversation, and Sherlock knows John's thinking the same thing he is when his old flatmate says, "I don't think either of us would argue with you on that, darling."

So Sherlock begins seeing Molly socially on a regular basis. Sometimes Garrett Lestrade comes along but sometimes he doesn't, and Sherlock is uncomfortably aware that these latter times resemble a double date: John and Mary, and him and Molly. But Molly doesn't seem to be fawning over him like he thought she might start doing again; based on some of her dry answers to Mary's questions, she doesn't seem to be in a rush to get involved with anyone any time soon, and based on how comfortable she now seems around him, he's fairly sure she no longer harbors any romantic feelings for him. Instead she becomes a friend, someone he can have good conversations with when Mary and John get caught up discussing the date of the next OB/GYN appointment.

Sherlock even once spends an evening with Molly and Lestrade without the Watsons, who are at a birthing class. (Sherlock would have preferred to be at the class with them, but the instructor banned him from returning after his first time attending, when he spent the entire evening arguing with her over whether her breathing techniques were in keeping with the latest medical research; the woman didn't understand that Sherlock was not trying to be rude, he was just concerned about the welfare of the unborn Watson child.)

(He gets the feeling that Mary understands, though; he gets the feeling that she knows he worries about this baby like it's his daughter because he will likely never have a child of his own, and it's an interesting thing to experience at least once.)

And it's an enjoyable evening, for the most part; they go to a pub—Lestrade's choice—because for once Mary isn't with them and they proceed to get fairly drunk. Lestrade goes slow; he tells them that after everything he's seen in his police work, he prefers to never let himself get too far gone. And Sherlock is hesitant at first, because he dislikes the way alcohol interferes with his ability to think; he really only drank at the stag do for John's sake. But Molly is off and running while he's still politely sipping at his first drink, and it's not long before he realizes she can drink him under the table. His competitive side kicks in and refuses to let him be outdrunk, and it's not long before he's gotten quite messy, quite disoriented and quite happy (he may be hesitant to start drinking, but once he starts he often finds himself diving into the experience wholeheartedly).

Molly's holding her liquor better than he is but she's still a bit gone herself, enough to make her loosen up quite a bit. She's smiling and carefree and he finds it an excellent change from how quiet and withdrawn she's been lately. It's too bad she's been so down since Tom, he thinks through the haze in his brain, because she's quite pretty when she smiles. In fact, when he can get his eyes to focus properly, he thinks she looks downright beautiful right now—not the glinting, alluring, dangerous beauty of the Woman, but like . . . a meadow. Like a warm blanket. Can a warm blanket be beautiful? He's not sure; his thought processes have slowed to a shocking crawl.

And now that he's noticed her he can't unnotice her, and when she turns away from him to answer a text, he finds himself transfixed by her hair, which is hanging down long and smooth and shiny. He gazes at it for a long time, and then an overwhelming urge to see what it feels like overtakes him, and he finds himself lifting a hand to reach out and touch it. Before he can get there, though, she finishes her text and turns around, and he drops his arm and pretends to be looking at something else. She doesn't notice that anything happened.

But someone noticed, because when Sherlock looks over at Lestrade, he sees the man is watching him and Molly with his eyebrows raised, as though he finds something about them very interesting.

o.o.o

It's in late August that Sherlock's fears about having John married are finally confirmed: that month marks the first time that Sherlock needs John to assist him on a case and John's unavailable because of his wife.

"I can't do it," he tells Glen Lestrade over the phone. "John is on holiday with Mary, and I can't do something this big without an assistant."

"Just do it alone, Sherlock," Lestrade sighs. "It's not that hard. Or—" And suddenly he pauses, and when he speaks again his tone has changed. "Or ask Molly Hooper."

Sherlock stiffens, memories of the last time he asked Molly Hooper to be his assistant flashing through his head. "I don't think that's wise," he says. "The last time I had her help with my crime-solving, it ended with the understanding that she was no longer interested in assisting me."

"Well, " says Lestrade, "You were probably a jerk to her back then, but you're been much less of a jerk lately. Anyway, it's her day off. She'd probably enjoy the excitement."

"I'm not going to ask her," Sherlock insists.

"Look," says Lestrade, "if I find you an assistant, will you be there?"

And Sherlock pretends to consider, but honestly, with the improbable facts of the case—the murders happening in plain sight in a park, the victims missing a _liver_, of all things—there was never a chance he was going to say no.

However, there was also never a chance that he was going to work with Molly Hooper again, and yet here she is when he reaches the park, waiting for him patiently. She's done something with her hair or her makeup—he doesn't know but it looks quite nice. But that's not the point; the point is that they agreed she would never have to do this again, and now here she is, and Lestrade is going to get an earful the next time Sherlock sees him. "Did Lestrade make you come here?" he asks.

She nods.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I know you didn't want to do this again—"

"Sherlock," she says, "it's fine. That was a long time ago, and I was still worked up that day about you coming back from the dead, and also you kept calling me John which wasn't good for my self-esteem—"

"Sorry," he repeats.

"—but this is fine. I think you've got my name down now. And it's an interesting case, right?" She smiles at him, and he hesitates, and then he finds himself smiling back—not his usual polite obligatory smile, but a real genuine smile. And Holmes and Hooper set out to solve a crime.

It's a bit like last time; she mostly agrees with him and says a few Ah's and Wow's and takes notes that he will never need because he remembers every detail. But she also makes a few genuine contributions, including diagnosing the cause of the discolored skin around victim's arm, and she provides some useful information about the prescription medication in the man's jacket pocket, and between the two of them they have the case wrapped up by early evening.

"Sherlock," she asks as they walk to the nearest large street to grab taxis, "was it all right, having me there? I know I'm not John and I worry I'm going to mess something up—"

"I didn't want you to be John," he says. "You were perfect; you fulfilled every duty I could have asked of you." He hesitates, but the setting sun is putting a rosy glow around everything and somehow he feels connected to the world around him, and connected to her, in a way that normally doesn't happen to him. "I don't often tell you this, Molly, but I trust you, and there are very few people I can say that of in this world. I didn't mean to force this on you, but I can think of few people I would rather have assist me."

She stops walking, a shy smile spreading over her face. "Thank you," she says quietly. "And if you ever need an assistant again . . ."

He smiles back and the strangest feeling steals over him, one that makes him want to do something bizarre and rash, like putting a hand on her shoulder. But he knows perfectly well that touching is not something he enjoys, so he simply finishes the walk, hails her a cab, and sends her home before starting for home himself.

o.o.o

"Wait," says Molly, cutting through the silence, "where is your shop?"

And Sherlock barely hears the client's answer because his brain is whirring. _Of course, brilliant, she's exactly right!_

"Because maybe this club you've joined—" Molly goes on.

"—is a ruse to get you out of your shop in the afternoons," Sherlock finishes. "And since no one's going to rob a stationery store—"

"—then it must be the location, not the store, that's important." She pushes on, sounding excited. "And if this club has suddenly all shut down and disappeared—"

"—then they've gotten what they needed from having you out of your shop!" he says. He and Molly look at each other, triumphant, and he's never admired her as much as he does at this moment.

They rush to the man's stationery shop in time to catch the shop assistant and her accomplice before they try to rob the jewelry store next door, having spent the last month casing it in the afternoons while the shop owner attended his fake new club. And when everything's been sorted out, Sherlock and Molly sit in a nearby diner with sandwiches and chips in front of them, and Molly is glowing with her triumph.

"I'm very impressed," he tells her sincerely. "You cracked the case and prevented the robbery."

"You would have solved it three seconds later if I hadn't been there," she smiles, but she looks pleased.

"Nonetheless," he says graciously, "you did solve it."

She is thoughtful a moment. "Sherlock," she asks, "why do you keep inviting me 'round to do this with you? I'm not complaining," she adds quickly. A smile crosses her lips. "It's sort of exciting. But you keep saying you need help and I don't think I've done anything helpful."

"Well," he says reasonably, "I need someone to fill in when John is at work—"

"Yes," she says, "but I don't think you need John, either. Is it just that you like having someone around to see you being clever?" She pauses, then laughs. "Or is that your way of making us spend time with you?"

It's meant as a joke, he's fairly sure, but it's so uncomfortably close to questions he's asked himself a time or two that he freezes. Molly's eyes widen. "I'm so sorry! That came off so rude."

"It's all right," he says stiffly, and then his pride makes him add, "But would it be such a bad thing if I use my daily caseload to provide a pastime when I spend time with acquaintances?"

And she hesitates, and then something warm enters her expression, and to his surprise she reaches one hand across the table. For a moment he thinks she's going to place it on his hand, but instead she taps her fingers against the folds of extra fabric in the cuffs of his sleeve, pinning that sleeve between her hand and the table; he assumes it's a way for her to avoid making him uncomfortable by touching him. "Sherlock," she says, "John is your friend, and so am I. And we will happily spend time with you, even if you don't have any crimes to solve or other 'pastimes' planned."

Someday he'll stop feeling embarrassed about his lack of social experience; today isn't that day. But her advice is very much welcome. "Thank you, Molly Hooper," he says softly. And then, feeling that the conversation has gotten a little too personal, he clears his throat. "Now, tell me about that autopsy you did yesterday on the man from Kent. I've never gotten to personally examine Creutzfeldt-Jakob–damaged brain tissue."

Molly smiles and obliges, and their discussion lasts for another half-hour. But a few times he gets distracted from it, because he finds himself glancing at her hands and thinking that about one thing, she had been wrong: he thinks that he maybe wouldn't have minded if she'd touched him.

o.o.o

"I'm taking your advice," he says two weeks later as he strides into the morgue. "Dinner at La Balancelle on Saturday. I'm inviting people for social gatherings without crimes involved." He pauses. "Well, I say people—just John and Mary and you, and I think Gordon's bringing a date."

Molly looks pleased. "Who's Gordon?" she asks.

He blinks at her. "He's an inspector. Gray hair. You see him all the time, I know you know him."

"Greg?" she asks, but his phone is ringing and he puts up one finger to tell her to hold that thought while he answers.

It's John, and his voice is strangely choked.

"What is it?" Molly asks when he hangs up, and when he turns to face her she must see something in his face that frightens her because she repeats her question, more frantically.

"Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock says stiffly, looking down at his phone. "Car accident."

In moments they're tucked away in the backseat of a cab, him and Molly, and he can't remember why she's there but he supposes she must have volunteered—must have insisted, if he knows her. It should concern him that he can't recall that but he's distracted thinking about the fact that for the first time in years (since Baskerville), he is afraid. "She listed John as her emergency contact while I was . . . away. He's at the hospital with her now." He's normally better than this at dealing with a crisis, but Mrs. Hudson has become a weakness for him.

Molly bites her lip, her hands clenched tightly together. "But she's still alive?" she confirms.

He nods but can find no more words to say. He has complained about her, he has ignored her, he has never appreciated her, but at the end of the day Mrs. Hudson has been his mother in all but name for years now. Sad that it took a car accident for him to realize that. He has a curious sensation, like he's floating in water, like he might float right out of the cab, and he wishes suddenly that Molly would touch him and remind him that he's still on the ground. She doesn't, of course, because he's Sherlock Holmes and he doesn't like to be touched and she's Molly Hooper and she doesn't love him anymore. But he still wishes it.

John meets them at the hospital and he looks even more stressed than Sherlock feels. "She's currently stable but still in critical condition," he tells them. "She hasn't woken up yet." He sighs. "I haven't been able to get hold of Mary," he explains. "She lost her phone last week and she's out with a friend whose number I don't have and I didn't even have time to leave a note at the flat or go to the restaurant and tell her because I had to get here for Mrs. Hudson—"

"Go find her," Molly says. "We're here now, we can hold down the fort until you get back."

When John is gone, Sherlock talks a nurse into letting him see Mrs. Hudson, but as they were told, she is still unconscious, lying very still amidst white sheets and bandages. He knows perfectly well how old she is, but it's never struck him until now—just how frail she is, how small. It makes him slightly sick to his stomach, seeing her there, and his hands shake, and he escapes back out to the tranquility of the waiting room, where Molly waits.

"How is she?"

"Unconscious." He hesitates, then sighs. "Battered."

She stands. "Come sit down," she says softly, and when he doesn't move she tugs on his coat sleeve to draw him over to the comfortable chairs. He goes willingly; it's nice to feel her touch on his arm, real and solid when everything else feels surreal. When they sit, though, she releases his sleeve, and he wants her hand back immediately. He doesn't know how to go about getting her to touch him again, though.

And normally he'd never admit to not knowing what to do here, but this is a unique set of circumstances, and, eyes fixed embarrassedly on the floor, he speaks. "If I were . . . normal, what would you . . ." he says, then starts over. "I know you know I don't like being touched, but right now I . . ."

He can't finish, but it turns out he doesn't have to, because Molly immediately scoots over and begins rubbing one hand comfortingly over his shoulders and his back, while her other hand goes to his upper arm. He relaxes into it and sighs, sinking down to rest his elbows on his knees. "Thank you, Molly Hooper," he says quietly. "You're far kinder to me than I deserve."

That's how Mary and John find them an hour later, but he's too tranquil to be embarrassed, so he ignores the overly emotive smiles Mary shoots him as she sinks down to wait as well. That woman is always excited about something odd.

o.o.o

Mrs. Hudson comes home after eight days in the hospital. In those eight days, Sherlock, still wary after Moriarty, runs himself ragged trying to figure out if the accident was more than it seems (as far as he can tell, no, just a terrible cab driver and a lot of bad luck); Mary, in the meantime, gets rather ill, sending her and John on a panicked round of tests and exams (turns out to be nothing but a stomach bug). So in the end it's Molly who suggests that it would be nice if someone had dinner ready for Mrs. Hudson on her first day home, and shows up that afternoon with an armful of groceries.

Sherlock stays up in his flat at first, but curiosity soon gets the better of him and he wanders downstairs, where his helpful comments to Molly (who, as it turns out, is a terrible cook) soon get him assigned to making mashed potatoes with Molly's exasperated "Since you think you can do a better job than me!" ringing in his ears. And it's pleasant, as it turns out. Normally when he cooks, which is not often, he deliberately picks the most difficult recipes so the complexity of it can challenge his ever-whirring brain. Molly, who doesn't have the same unquiet mind, has picked much easier dishes, but she is such good company that the boredom never sets in. Talking to her isn't a new experience—she's now assisting him with cases nearly every week—but they're normally busy with murders and mysteries, and this is the first time he's talked to her outside a case, uninterrupted and alone, for such a long period of time. They talk of anatomy and autopsies, diseases and death, but it turns out she's also interested in history and classical music and politics. She's sharp enough that she can hold up a conversation with him on even the topics she knows little about, and the conversation never flags.

The Watsons arrive with Mrs. Hudson soon after the meal is done cooking, and the meal that follows goes off splendidly. Sherlock largely sits back and lets the Watsons and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade do the talking; it's been a difficult week and as much as he tries to pretend he's invincible, the truth is that he's tired. Not to mention he doesn't know what to say; the conversation is of a much more sentimental nature than is normal for their little group, and he has nothing to contribute to that.

It's not that he isn't aware of how relieved he is to have Mrs. Hudson whole and hale back at Baker Street; the dread and the regret of that terrible night at the hospital are firmly branded into his memory. And it's not that he isn't strangely content to sit around the table in the candlelight with five of the people who matter to him the most (if he didn't hate the idea of making his personal peace of mind dependent on other people, he'd admit that right now he's actually quite happy). It's just that he doesn't know what to do about these emotions he can't—and perhaps doesn't want to—suppress.

What does one say to their long-suffering landlady after a car accident? He kissed her on the cheek and said "Welcome home" when she arrived, and that completely exhausted his supply of social niceties. He doesn't know where Lestrade keeps pulling platitudes from; he's not sure he could smile endlessly at her like John and Molly are doing; he doesn't understand how Mary knows that squeezing Mrs. Hudson's hand will be accepted and not considered off-putting. He can fake the actions of a caring relationship, but he doesn't know how to go through them sincerely; until John, he had never successfully cultivated a friendship with anyone, and even his relationship with John is the result of a number of accidents and of John's endless patience. So he is content to sit back and observe, and the pleasantness of being with these people is enough to distract him from the fact that from a purely objective point of view, it's a bit of a boring meal.

"I'll wash up," says Molly, rising to her feet.

"You sit back down," says Mary firmly. "You cooked, we clean."

"Mary, you're seven months pregnant," says Molly reasonably.

"True," says Mary, looking over at her husband.

John stands quickly. "I believe that was a hint that I ought to volunteer to help. Come on, Greg, give me a hand with these."

The Watsons and Lestrade disappear into the kitchen, and Molly follows after them, insisting that she's not going to make a pregnant woman clean up after her. Only Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson remain around the table, and Mrs. Hudson is smiling at him. "John told me you've been looking into my accident."

"As far as I can tell, it was truly just an accident."

"But it was kind of you to look, Sherlock. Underneath all that . . . detective-ing—" she gestures vaguely at him— "you have a good heart."

The smallest smile crosses his face, and then he finds himself reaching out and gripping her hand, copying Mary's move from earlier. "I know I must be a difficult tenant," he says sincerely, and he blames the soft glow of the candlelight and the way it isolates them from the group in the kitchen for the sentimentality of his declaration, "but I do very much appreciate having you as a landlady, and I'm glad you're home and safe."

She squeezes his hand back. "Sherlock," she says, and he can tell from the tone of her voice she's getting teary.

"Don't think too well of me," he says, half joking and half serious. "I'm sure I'll be back to being a terror in the morning."

Mrs. Hudson shakes her head. "You've changed," she says, removing her hand from his to point at him emphatically. "In a good way. And yes, you're still a bit of a terror. But you're not the same ill-tempered hermit I first met. You care about people, and you've got people who care about you. Never forget that, Sherlock."

He glances over at the kitchen, where he can see Molly and Lestrade laughing at something John said while Mary smiles in the background. "I know," he says quietly.

"I still can't believe you planned a welcome home dinner for me," Mrs. Hudson adds. "Never thought I'd live to see the day you were that thoughtful."

"You haven't yet," he admits. "This was all Molly's idea."

"Ah," she says, and glances back at the kitchen. "What a wonderful girl." She pats Sherlock's hand, and again Sherlock wonders how people can be so confident about physical contact. "I'm glad you've been spending more time with her. She's lovely. And she's a good influence on you, if she got you to help cook today." Her gaze drifts back to the kitchen. "I like her."

And Sherlock follows her gaze to the kitchen door, where he can see Molly deep in conversation with Mary. Her smile is warm, her eyes are bright, and Sherlock replies, "So do I."

o.o.o

AN: For those of you keeping score at home, the case Molly solved is from a Sherlock Holmes short story called The Adventure of the Red-Headed League.


	3. Chapter 3

AN: The odd thing about writing this story is that I started it before episode 3 of season 3 had aired, so I have to keep writing it as though the events of that episode never happened even though they're all sitting at the back of my mind, coloring my mental versions of all these characters. The point is, if I've accidentally said anything in the story that could only be true if episode 3 had happened, sorry.

o.o.o

She's wearing lipstick.

It's such an unexpected sight that Sherlock pauses as he walks into the morgue, looking closer to make sure he saw right. Yes, she is absolutely wearing lipstick, and the shirt she has on under her lab coat—_real silk, low neckline—_is a far cry from the jumpers she usually wears to work. He hasn't seen her wear lipstick for months, not since she broke up with Tom.

Memories flash through his head like pictures in a slide show, compiling a list of the times he's seen her like this before, until he's certain: until her engagement, the only times he saw her wear lipstick, she was wearing it an attempt to impress him. So is this it, then? Are Molly's attempts to get over him, the months of her showing no romantic interest in any man, finally ending?

Back when he first knew her, any realization that she'd dressed up for him always filled him with irritation and dread—yet another clumsy pass for him to deflect. And yet today, he finds the fact that she's about to try to flirt with him, even ask him on a date, somewhat . . . intriguing. What will she say this time, how will she look, what made her suddenly end her self-imposed isolation? He'll have to say no, obviously; she should have known that before she even considered asking. After all this time, she should know better than anyone that he's married to his work. And yet the thought weighs on him a little; the prospect of watching the bright sparkle of her eyes dim when he turns her down is surprisingly unpleasant. He wishes she hadn't decided to ask so he didn't have to answer (although he's also quite pleased to know he's been returned to his pedestal in Molly's heart, which was empty for so long and before that occupied by that moron wearing cheap imitations of his clothes).

All this has passed through his mind in an instant, and now Molly is lifting her eyes from her paperwork and those red lips are lifting into a smile (the color does something very nice to the general aesthetic of her mouth). Intriguing indeed.

"Molly," John says pleasantly behind him, "you look quite nice."

And now Molly looks a bit embarrassed. "I feel a bit overdressed for all these corpses," she admits. "But I'm leaving in a few minutes for a nice restaurant."

"Friends?" asks John.

"Date," says Molly.

And Sherlock frowns. He's not sure he likes it when she wears lipstick.

o.o.o

Mid-November marks the anniversary of his return to London and finds Sherlock in a pensive mood. Year marks are when people assess their lives, after all, and he finds himself doing the same. What he finds is that the man he is today is different from the man he was one year ago, and the man he was one year ago is rather different from the man who jumped off the roof of St. Bart's, and that man who died was vastly different from the man who first moved in with John Watson. The change, he feels, can be directly measured by looking at the growing number of people he calls friends.

The Sherlock Holmes who met John Watson had no friends and had convinced himself he didn't care. The Sherlock Holmes who traveled abroad as a ghost had no friends and had finally admitted to himself that he did care (that he'd always cared, if he was being honest, only now the caring was more painful). The current Sherlock Holmes has friends and, though he struggles to admit it, cares about them deeply.

So when John and Mary plan a celebratory dinner to commemorate the great return, he goes without complaint. Mrs. Hudson comes, as well as Lestrade, who shakes his hand and tells him with mock seriousness that his gift for the occasion is that he didn't invite Donovan. And Molly's there when he arrives, in a tasteful, understated dress, which surprises him because he's only ever seen her fashion sense careen wildly between frumpy and overdone. She's alone—apparently her date last week didn't go well enough for her to decide to invite him to meet her friends—which Sherlock is glad about. This is something no outsider can understand. No one who didn't suffer through those two years can understand how much his friends missed him; no one but him can understand how much he missed them.

John makes a toast because he's like that. "Three years ago my best friend died and I asked for a miracle. One year ago that miracle occurred . . . and I responded by beating up that best friend." Everyone laughs and John points a finger at Sherlock. "Which I'm still not sorry about, by the way."

Mrs. Hudson pats Sherlock's hand in a motherly way. "You had it coming, dear."

"But my point is, as angry as I was, I got over it quickly, because the fact is we needed him." He fixes his eyes on Sherlock's. "England needed her consulting detective back, and I needed my best friend back. Because as ridiculous and frustrating as you are, you're a great man, and you're a good man. And I'm proud to call you my friend."

Everyone raises their glasses, and then Mary fixes him with a warm smile. "We all are, Sherlock," she says, and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson murmur their assent.

Sherlock, for his part, is feeling strange. His chest feels warm, and also like it's filling up with air, and for once he doesn't force himself to fight the feeling away. There's no threat, there's no case, there's no reason not to admit to himself that he would die for every single person around this table. And though he's never felt like he has genuinely loved anyone except his parents (and even that is hard to admit), he suspects that the way he feels about these people is the same way people feel when they say they love their friends. So he doesn't fight the smile that tugs at his lips.

But he still feels uncomfortable when Lestrade starts calling out for a speech; sentiment, and especially the expression of sentiment, are still foreign enough to him that to spontaneously create a speech that expresses his regard for these people feels utterly impossible. But then his eyes fall on Molly, sitting on the other side of the table and smiling quiet support across to him, and suddenly he knows exactly what to say. After all, Molly has always been the only person who can get him to apologize.

"I'm sorry," he says, hesitates, then starts again more strongly. "I'm sorry that it took two years away and on my own for me to realize how important you all are to me."

It's not much of a speech, but from John's smile and Mrs. Hudson's shining eyes, it's enough. He sits back in his chair, ready to be done with emotions for the night, but then he catches Molly's eye again. She's smiling broadly at him, and he smiles back.

o.o.o

Sherlock Holmes will never fall in love. He knows this because he knows that there are two elements involved in romantic love, neither of which he allows into his life: one, physical attraction, and two, the sort of sentimental affection that makes John and Mary occasionally unbearable to be around.

He doesn't do sentimental affection because sentiment, as he is fond of saying, is a chemical defect found in the losing side. It dulls the mind and the instincts and it makes people unable to do things they know they need to and all too willing to do things they know they shouldn't. He won't allow himself to become so sloppy—except, of course, about his very small circle of friends. And about the Watson child, which surprises him when he thinks about because she isn't even born yet, and his parents. And if he's honest he'd admit he even feels affection for Mycroft. But other than that, no. He has faults, he knows this, but he prides himself that a tendency to indulge in the sappy and sentimental is not one of them.

And physical attraction is quite out of the picture. The body is transport, always less important than the mind. He believes this genuinely and deeply, and it is a point of great pride to him that he can, when necessary, suppress his body's most basic animal needs and urges, to keep them from interfering with the workings of his mind. He has gone days without food before, and even longer without sleep, and every time he does so he always reflects with satisfaction on the foolishness of the people around him, toiling away like so many ants in a hill, no thoughts in their heads except food and shelter and reproduction.

So it is with some surprise and great reluctance that he admits to himself one day that he is physically attracted to Molly Hooper. It's worse, somehow, than when he was attracted to the Woman. Adler had attraction down to an art, seduction down to a science. It was her job, and he can hardly blame himself for being taken in by a professional. But Molly? Molly is a tiny mouse of a woman, nothing like as skilled as the Woman in how to use her body and his body against him. Instead of bare skin and sultry tones, with Molly it's something about the quirk of her lips and the softness of her features and the sheen of her hair. She's not a seductress and that makes this whole thing more irritating to him because he can't explain away the attraction.

Not for lack of trying, though; for weeks now, maybe months, the evidence has been piling up that he is not unaware of Miss Hooper's physical attributes. And for weeks, maybe months, he's done something unheard of for Sherlock Holmes: he has ignored the facts. He has ignored the clear picture being painted, the story being told, because if that conclusion turned out to be true it would complicate his life more than he wants. But the facts have piled up until they cannot be ignored. The fact is that her presence, if she's standing closer than roughly five feet from him, causes his heart rate to accelerate in an irritating fashion and his palms to get itchy. The fact is that sometimes when she accidentally brushes up against him, he temporarily experiences increased sensitivity in that area. The fact is that not only is she one of the few people he's allowed to touch him recently, he actually asked her to touch him, which he's never done before. And yes, he was worried about Mrs. Hudson, but he knows perfectly well that he wouldn't have asked John or Mary for the same thing if they'd been there instead. The fact is that once—only once!—he found himself looking at her lips and wondering what it would be like to touch them.

So he admits, reluctantly, that he's attracted to her. But he stops castigating himself for it before long, because you can't fight the physical body forever. Eventually you eat; eventually you sleep; eventually the smile of the girl in the morgue starts temporarily altering your breathing patterns. He'll simply have to ignore it, the way he ignored his attraction to the Woman. Perfectly easy.

Although it'd be easier if she stopped smiling like that.

o.o.o

Something's on her mind; he can see it in the way her hands idly tap the worktable and the way she's biting her lower lip. And while he knows the infected flesh samples under her microscope are interesting, he's sure they're not worth this much thought. And the curiosity grows until finally he sets down the stack of test reports he's perusing. "Out with it," he says. "Clearly something is bothering you."

She looks up from her microscope, a little surprised at being caught, and then smiles at him. "You know," she says, "most people would just ask how I was doing."

"These 'most people' sound boring," he says. "Are you going to tell me or do I have to figure it out? It's work-related, I know; you're more than usually aware of the lab today. You keep looking around the room and sighing and touching the equipment for longer than necessary."

She makes a face at him and the corner of his mouth turns up in a smile; he likes this version of her that isn't afraid to sass him. She looks around the lab a moment, then sighs and lays her hands on the table. "I got a job offer."

He blinks. "What job?"

"Research," she says. "I'd have my own lab."

"You wouldn't be down here in the morgue anymore?"

"I wouldn't be in London anymore," she corrects. "It's with a teaching hospital in Edinburgh."

He grows still. "I see. It's a move up, then?"

She nods. "In a lot of ways, yes."

It's unacceptable. That's all he can think, is that it's unacceptable for her to leave. This lab, this hospital, is his second home, more comfortable and familiar and dear than nearly any other place in the world (only Baker Street and John and Mary's flat exceed it). He's even noticed that over the last year, the room in his mind palace where he goes to sift through medical facts has come to resemble this little lab. If she left, he would lose that.

_Don't be ridiculous_, says Mycroft's voice in his mind, sounding as reasonable and as condescending as ever. _You'll still be able to access the facilities with her gone. Or you should be able to, anyway—aren't you supposed to be clever?_

_Of course you can access it, _says his mind version of Molly. _But you'll be in here without me._

And with that he's pulled forcibly out of his own thoughts to peer even more closely at Molly, who's pulling a letter out of her lab coat pocket—the job offer, he assumes—and in that moment he finally understands, after all these years, that it's not just the equipment and the space that make this lab important to him. It's the reliable help and the quiet camaraderie of Dr. Molly Hooper, and it's that loss that feels so unacceptable. And the lab aside, what about them having dinners with the Watsons, and what about when she finds him interesting old case files to keep his mind occupied, and what about solving crimes together, and what about when the crimes are solved and they sit in 221B sipping tea and talking of nothing or sitting in comfortable silence? What about his realization, right at this moment, that she matters to him as much as anyone else in his life, maybe more? What about how much he needs her?

_What about, _says the Molly in his head, _what I want? What I need? I'm a doctor, Sherlock, not your assistant, and if this is a good move for my career, why shouldn't I take it?_

_A million reasons, _he tells her. _The weather in Edinburgh, to begin with—_

_Not a good reason, _she says. _Give me a real reason, one that doesn't involve you being afraid to lose me._

Her words (his own words, really, because he knows this is all in his head) hit him like a slap across the face. It's true, he's afraid to lose her. He's only got five friends; he can't afford to lose one.

And now here's mind John coming to chime in. _But as her friend, _he says reasonably,_ you should want what's best for her. That's what love is, Sherlock; it's letting the other person's happiness be as important to you as your own._

The crinkling of paper brings him back to the present and he sees he's thought all of this in the moments it took her to pull the job offer out of its envelope. "Here it is," she says, smoothing out the letter. "'Head of Pathological Research,' is the exact title. They saw a paper I published. It's rather flattering, isn't it?"

And her smile is so warm and sincere, her expression so pleased, that he acquiesces to the John in his mind—_I will be a good friend, I will be supportive, I will not try to talk her out of it_—even though the thought makes his chest feel leaden and hollow. "So you're leaving London?" he says evenly.

A funny look crosses her face, like she's still wrestling with this idea in her head. "No, I don't think so," she says hesitantly, and the world is still for a moment, and then Sherlock starts breathing properly again. "It's tempting, but I'd be sorry not to do as much morgue work. I like the academic side of what I do, but that's not why I got into it. I do this because I like giving people closure." She makes that face again. "I think. I think this is the right choice." She sighs. "It would be a great job, but I love it here—the people and the facilities. And they do give me time to pursue my research interests here, just not as much as Edinburgh would." She is quiet a moment, trailing her fingers up and down the side of the microscope, and then a smile crosses her face. "Besides, everyone I care about is in London." She nods decisively. "I'm sure of it now. This is the right choice. I'm staying here."

He's shocked at how relieved he feels. "Well," he says when he finally trusts his voice not to give away that rush of emotion he just felt, "for what it's worth, I'd have been sorry to see you go."

She smiles at him. "It's worth a lot, Sherlock. Thank you."

He goes back to his test reports, but it takes a few long moments before he can focus on them, and even longer before the strange fluttery feeling in his stomach goes away.

o.o.o

Mary has decided to have Christmas at her and John's this year, despite all the protestations that she'll be only a week from her due date at that point, and plans to invite Sherlock and Molly and Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade will be with family, but the rest of their little group has nowhere to go for Christmas; Mrs. Hudson and Molly and Mary have no relatives in the country, and John's still not on speaking terms with Harry, and Sherlock has parents who will be on a cruise and a brother who has made it perfectly clear how he feels about Christmas. "We'll be each other's family," Mary says decisively. "And isn't that a nice idea, that sometimes families are biological and sometimes they're the people you choose to have around you."

"It is a nice idea," John smiles as he watches Mary begin scribbling down menu ideas at the kitchen table. "You did that, you know, Sherlock? I found Mary on my own, but everyone else who's close to me, I met through you."

"You've never had problems making friends," Sherlock says reasonably. "You'd have met people."

"Maybe," says John. "Or maybe I'd still be a nervous wreck of an ex-soldier, trying to scrape by in some dingy flat and picking fights in pubs for a bit of excitement." He pauses. "No, you're right, I'm far too sensible for that. But I wouldn't be solving crimes or rubbing elbows with shadowy government figures or spending time at Buckingham Palace." He laughs, and Sherlock, remembering their adventures, smiles too. "I guess I'm trying to say thank you." He pauses. "And I'm saying that as you're the nearest thing to family that Mary has, besides me, you'd better show up on Christmas or you'll break her heart."

"I wouldn't dream of disappointing Mary," Sherlock says sincerely.

John smiles, then hesitates. "You still doing all right at Baker Street?"

"Of course I am. Why wouldn't I be?"

John puts his hands up in a placating gesture. "Just wondering. You know, with you living alone."

"John, I've lived alone most of my adult life. Why would I suddenly struggle with it now?"

"Just wondering," John repeats. "Because, you know, before we met, you were . . . but now you're a lot more . . . I thought maybe you'd gotten more accustomed to having people around, so you wouldn't like living alone as much anymore." He pauses. "I'm sorry I can't go on as many cases with you as I used to."

"It's all right, I have Molly," Sherlock says automatically, and is surprised when John looks amused.

"Right," smiles John, and there's something in his tone that immediately annoys Sherlock. "You have Molly, do you? How are you enjoying that, having Molly?"

"You know I meant simply that Molly is now helping me out on cases."

"I know," says John. "But maybe you should consider . . . having Molly."

And Sherlock stares at his friend, surprised, as John grins and saunters away.

o.o.o

It's a ridiculous store, as far as Sherlock is concerned—handmade soaps and lotions displayed in rough-hewn wooden crates filled with straw, with a mural of rolling wheat fields painted on the wall, as though that's going to convince anyone that these toiletries are so organic and down-to-earth that they were actually made on a farm and not in a lab somewhere. And even more grating is that they've gone all out for the Christmas season: the display of seasonal soaps with twee names like "Jingle All the Whey" and "Peppermint Pick-me-up," a wreath on the door, a garland behind the register. And on the ceiling above where his little group stands, can that really be—

"Mistletoe," says Detective Inspector Lane, pointing upwards, and Sherlock wonders if the man steered them this way on purpose (likely, given the way he's been flirting with Molly all day). He raises his eyebrows at Molly, clearly not remotely concerned that Sherlock is standing right next to them observing this little shenanigan. "What do you think, Dr. Hooper?"

Sherlock knows what Molly thinks even before he sees the slight grimace cross her face; she's made it perfectly clear all day with her reactions to Lane that she's not at all interested. And a year ago he would have ignored the conversation, feeling not remotely interested in other people's romantic entanglements and figuring that Molly is a grown woman who is more than capable of deciding whether she wants to kiss someone and then acting accordingly. But this year he can't, somehow. This year it irritates him, strangely, that this detective is being so unprofessional as to try to use an antiquated tradition to force an investigator working his crime scene to kiss him. It's ridiculous that Molly has to deal with this and it's ridiculous of Lane not to see that she doesn't want to kiss him. But maybe on some level he's as bad as Lane is because when an idea pops into his head, one to put Lane in his place, he acts on it without thinking.

"He's right, it's tradition," Sherlock says, and leans down (way down) (he's never really realized until this moment how big the height difference is here) and kisses Molly.

The only other kisses that he has to compare this to are a handful given to women as part of covers for cases—all fake and all designed to deceive—and one kiss from Irene as a thank you for saving her in Karachi; that one, he admits, was entirely real and entirely affecting, but even at the time he recognized it as a goodbye. This kiss is different from all of those. It's simple and it's quick and it doesn't even mean anything, it's just a ridiculous tradition, and yet the moment they pull away from each other he's sorry it's over. Maybe it's that he's never before kissed someone who actually knows him and still genuinely cares. Or maybe it's just that she smells quite good (a citrus hand cream that he can smell even over the nearby bars of Jingle All the Whey).

There's an odd look in Molly's eyes, surprise and a bit of confusion, until Detective Inspector Lane clears his throat and suddenly her expression fills with understanding and she flashes Sherlock a smile. The detective clears his throat again and Sherlock, looking over at him, sees that he looks disappointed. "I should go call the lab," he says, pulling out his cellphone and trudging outside.

Once he's out of earshot Molly giggles. "I guess that's one way to discourage him," she smiles. "Come on, we should finish checking these crates."

But it takes Sherlock a moment to follow her; he feels like the entire world has just shifted two steps to the left and he can't find his bearings for the moment. And Molly's not as unaffected as she pretends, either, because when she thinks he's not looking she lifts one hand to her lips, almost absentmindedly. There's a strange tension in the air and he doesn't know how to break it but he knows it needs to be done.

"Molly," he says.

"Yes?" she replies when he doesn't go on.

"Nothing."

o.o.o


	4. Chapter 4

o.o.o

It's late in the afternoon of Christmas Eve when John calls. Sherlock is at Baker Street with Molly; as has become their habit, they went there after finishing their latest case to sip tea and discuss the solved mystery (only a 5, so he probably didn't actually need Molly there, but he hadn't seen her in over a week and he'd found himself calling her in to help before he'd quite realized what he was doing).

They've long since left discussion of the case behind, though, and Molly is listing all the reasons she wants to visit Paris and Sherlock is listing all the reasons she'd hate Paris when the ringing of a cell phone interrupts them.

"It's time," John says without preamble when Sherlock answers. "I'm taking Mary to the hospital now. Just wanted to let you know. I'll call when—"

"I'll be there in thirty minutes," Sherlock interrupts. "How far apart are the contractions? Do you have her overnight bag?"

Molly looks up, excited. "Is that John? Is the baby coming?"

Instead of answering, Sherlock pulls the phone from his ear and puts it on speaker so Molly can hear the conversation. "Hi, John!" she chirps.

"Hello, Molly," John says. "And yes, Sherlock, I have the bag. But you don't need to come to the hospital yet; it could be hours before anything happens. I'll call you once she's born."

"Nonsense, I'm going to come be supportive. Aren't you always tell me to be more supportive?"

"You remember that you're not allowed in during the actual delivery, right?" John asks. "Even if the hospital allowed it, we wouldn't. Mary doesn't really fancy having an audience."

Sherlock is silent a moment, put out—he'd hoped John and Mary had forgotten telling them that—but even so . . . "I'll be there in thirty minutes," he repeats. "To wait outside, if you so insist."

John simply chuckles, as though he never expected to win this argument. "Have it your way," he says, and hangs up.

Sherlock is across the room and hurrying into his coat in moments; Molly is slower to reach the coat rack, as she's been putting their tea things back in the kitchen. "Hurry up," he tells her firmly.

She just smiles and shakes her head as she reaches the front door. "I can show myself out if you want to leave now." She slings her scarf around her neck and then points at him. "And if the baby's born before midnight or after seven, call me, but if she's born in the middle of the night, text."

His hands grow still on the buttons of his coat. "You're not coming?"

She looks surprised. "No. You heard John; it could be hours before the baby's born, and even when she is born we won't be able to see her right off." She shrugs into her coat. "Besides, I promised a friend I'd be at his Christmas party tonight."

He stares at her a long moment, long enough for her to start to look uncomfortable, before he pulls himself away from the surprising realization that he'll miss her if she doesn't come. "I'll call," he says, not meeting her eyes. "Or text." And then he hurries down the stairs.

"Don't forget to tell Mrs. Hudson!" Molly calls after him, but he's already to the front door at that point so he simply leaves, calling "Too late!" up the stairs toward her. Molly will tell Mrs. Hudson, he knows. She's thoughtful like that.

He allows himself five minutes of the cab ride, and five minutes only, to think about how why it bothers him that Molly didn't come with him—it's odd, really; he hadn't realized he expected her to be there until he knew that she wouldn't be. At the end of the five minutes, he has come up with two reasons he feels good about: first, he thought she'd be there to keep him company while waiting, the way she sat with him after Mrs. Hudson's accident, and he thinks it could be very boring without her. (That's a startling revelation; until recently, there were exactly two people in the world about whom he could honestly say that their company was actually preferable to being alone. Now, apparently, there are three.) Second, he's startled by her statement that she's going to a friend's Christmas party—a male friend, to be precise. He wasn't aware that she had any male friends besides him and John and Lestrade, and he wonders why she hasn't said much about this man and maybe he's a recent acquaintance or maybe he's one of the men she's been on dates with recently and he's not sure why that idea bothers him so much until he remembers that this is Molly he's thinking about. Molly has been targeted before by men (by one man, anyway) who took advantage of her trusting nature and her proximity to the great Sherlock Holmes. So really, it's self-preservation when he thinks he wants to hunt this male friend down and ask him exactly what he wants with Molly Hooper.

He's not so sure it's self-preservation, though, when he finds himself wondering if she'll dress up for this man like she dressed up for Sherlock many Christmases ago. In fact, if he's honest with himself, he knows self-preservation is merely a flimsy excuse.

When the five minutes are up, it's harder than he expected to shove all these thoughts back into their tidy little room in his mind palace.

o.o.o

At eight in the morning on Christmas day, Sherlock calls Molly to inform her of the birth of Elizabeth Ann Watson. Molly is clearly still in bed; she answers with a sleepy "Hello?" that almost completely derails Sherlock from his errand because now he's imagining her with sleepy eyes and tousled hair in the quiet sanctuary of her room and it's doing funny things to his chest. But he presses on and gives her the news and says the Watsons are sorry they can't hold to their original Christmas plans but would she like to come see the baby around noon?

Molly says she'd love to, sounding much more awake now, and asks him how he enjoyed waiting all night (he knows she knows he didn't sleep at all). He answers simply, "It was long." He doesn't tell her the truth, which is that he re-read two entire books on childbirth that he has on his phone, not because he doesn't remember the contents but because re-reading them was strangely calming. He doesn't tell her that he thinks he was more anxious than Mary and John combined, because he may not see the allure of having a baby but this is the most important thing in the world to the two most important people in his life and for their sake he is going to take this seriously—and sometimes when he takes things seriously he goes a little overboard. He doesn't tell her that he wishes she'd been there with him because he prefers her company to just about everyone else he knows and she would have kept him even calmer than reading those books managed to do. In fact he barely even tells himself that last one.

Molly just laughs. "See you soon, Sherlock." She pauses. "And merry Christmas."

Yes, that's right, it's Christmas. He'd forgotten. "Merry Christmas to you, Molly Hooper." And as he hangs up, he finds himself smiling.

He calls Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade then—John asked him to do all the announcing, and Sherlock knew perfectly well his friend was just trying to distract him from wreaking havoc at the hospital but he agreed to it anyway—and then, suddenly surprisingly hungry, walks out of the hospital to find breakfast. There's not much in the area, but he finally finds a small coffee shop with fruit and pastries, and then he walks the streets for nearly two hours. He's not allowed in until noon either; there are tests to do and the doctors insist on at least an hour of skin-to-skin bonding between the baby and Mary—it sounds uncomfortable to Sherlock but he's read the studies on the health benefits and he admits that they are fairly compelling—and the Watsons want time alone as a new family. Sherlock understands the reasoning there and he tries not to let it make him feel like such an outsider. He just keeps walking.

Finally, after even more waiting at the hospital, John comes to the door and motions him in. It's only eleven-thirty, and he looks at John quizzically as they walk to Mary's room. It's Mary, looking exhausted but blissful, who responds to that quizzical look. "We thought you'd want some time to bond with your new niece before everyone else arrives," she says. Sherlock raises his eyebrows and she smiles. "Is it all right if we tell her to call you Uncle Sherlock? She won't have any uncles otherwise."

"And only one very ill-tempered aunt," John adds.

Sherlock blinks twice, struggling to find words; he hasn't felt this way since John said he was his best friend. But he doesn't have time to write a best man speech expressing how moved and overwhelmed he is by the Watsons' love for him, so instead he says, "If you're looking for people to act as relatives, I'm sure my parents would be happy to oblige. They're still not over the idea that Mycroft and I will never give them grandchildren."

John rolls his eyes and Sherlock smiles, and then they're hugging—a rare occurrence for them, and what's even more unusual is that looking back, Sherlock thinks he might have been the one who initiated it.

When they break apart, Mary's eyes are shining. "My boys," she says fondly.

"Mary," John laughs, like a good-natured scold.

"Hey," says Mary firmly, wiping a tear from her cheek, "I just gave birth to _your_ baby and I'm feeling a little delicate and I think I'm allowed to cry a little. Now Sherlock, come hold your niece."

She holds the pink-wrapped bundle out to him, and he quickly seats himself in the chair next to the bed and takes the baby from her with confident hands (he's extensively researched how best to hold a baby). Elizabeth Ann Watson is a red-faced, wrinkly-skinned little gremlin, as he finds most babies to be, but he's only looked at her scrunched-up face and her impossibly tiny fingernails for a few moments before he knows that this is yet another person in his life that he would die for.

"What do you think?" Mary asks, eyes on his face.

"She . . . seems a very excellent baby," he says finally, and John and Mary both burst into laughter.

He's not sure how long he's sat there staring at her sleeping face, minutes or hours, before the door opens. He doesn't have to turn around to know it's Molly; he recognizes the sound her shoes make on the floor. Part of him wants to keep the baby for himself, to hold on to the surprisingly reassuring warm weight of her tiny body for a while longer. But a bigger part of him thinks that holding this little girl is the nicest thing he's done in a long time, and he wants Molly to have that experience as well. So as soon as she's taken her coat off and hugged Mary hello, Sherlock stands from his chair.

"Come here," he says, and Molly obligingly walks over to him so he can place the bundle of blankets in her arms. But he's not ready to give Elizabeth up just yet, so instead of moving away he stands close to Molly, one hand behind the baby's head and one hand on the small of Molly's back. Molly smiles adoringly down at the baby, and he looks adoringly down as well, and on some level it occurs to him that this is one of those rare moments where he's truly, unabashedly happy—but on another level he doesn't want to overthink it, he just wants to enjoy it.

And it isn't until he looks up and sees Mary giving him one of those smiles she does sometimes, like she's having a joyful secret thought that involves him (and Molly, perhaps; she's usually also present when these smiles are given), that he realizes how domestic a scene this must look: a man, a woman, a child. Blood rushes to his face and he moves away from Molly and the baby.

Molly doesn't notice. "She's perfect, Mary. She's so beautiful."

"I'm quite pleased with her," Mary says as Molly carefully moves to the chair Sherlock vacated and sits down. "You're very good with her, by the way."

"I used to babysit a lot when I was young," Molly smiles.

"That explains it," says Mary, then reaches out to brush her fingers against Elizabeth's sleeping face. "I think you're going to like Auntie Molly, aren't you sweetie?"

And Sherlock has never seen Molly look so surprised and so pleased.

So they're to be Auntie Molly and Uncle Sherlock, apparently. He doesn't mind. In fact he immediately begins planning the field trips he and Molly will take Elizabeth on when she grows up a little—the natural history museum, perhaps, which he loved as a child, and maybe the morgue when she's older. But now he's imagining him and Molly helping to care for this child, together, and it's making his chest do those twists again, and he shakes his head to try to get rid of the idea.

(He's not stupid; he knows perfectly well what these feelings might be. But he can't let them be that.)

Mrs. Hudson arrives then and distracts him from his thoughts by making a ridiculous fuss over the baby. Sherlock, watching her hold the little girl, thinks that it's a pity that she never had children of her own, and though he has been making progress in this area in the last few months, reminds himself not to get so annoyed when she fusses over him. He and John are the closest to children she's ever had. He's her family just like she is his, just like Mary and John and this baby are family.

Just like Molly is family, he thinks to himself.

Well, the kind of family you kiss under the mistletoe, anyway.

Maybe the family thing is a bad analogy.

o.o.o

Mary and Elizabeth both want a nap, so Sherlock and Molly and Mrs. Hudson venture out into the cold and find a mediocre Chinese restaurant where they eat soggy sweet and sour while Mrs. Hudson and Molly swap tales of their favorite Christmas memories. After a long meal, they return to the hospital, where Mrs. Hudson lifts the tote bag she's been carrying. "I know you've all been busy, so I don't want you to feel bad if you don't have anything, but I have your Christmas presents here."

Molly smiles and lifts her bag. "Me too."

The Watsons and Sherlock have nothing to give them in return, but the two women don't mind. They pass out their gifts while Sherlock watches and observes that this year, all of Molly's packages are wrapped with equal care. Her gift to him is marked "For Sherlock, love Molly x" and he tries to tell himself he's not strangely disappointed that it's one kiss, not three. It's a box of his favorite imported tea—very good, very expensive—and she smiles when he looks up at her. "To make up for all your tea that I've drunk."

They all stay in Mary's hospital room another hour, swapping jokes and holding the baby, until Mary shifts uncomfortably and Sherlock sees Molly and Mrs. Hudson look at each other. "We should probably go," Molly says.

Mary makes as though to protest, but Mrs. Hudson pats her hand. "You need your rest, dear."

Sherlock, standing by the window with the baby in his arms, is torn as the two women begin gathering up their things. He assumes that if Mary needs to rest, he should probably go too, but he did imply that he'd be at the hospital as long as the Watsons need him. But then part of him thinks he'd like to walk Molly down to the cab, and maybe ask if she'd like to come back to Baker Street for a while—it's still Christmas, after all, and it's only late afternoon—but another part of him is pointing out that if he leaves now, it will make the most sense to share a cab with Mrs. Hudson which would mean the chances of spending any time alone with Molly are slim, and a third part of him is baffled as to why he's even considering this.

But Mrs. Hudson makes up his mind for him in the end. "Goodbye, Sherlock," she says. "See you back at Baker Street later?" She leans over the sleeping baby in his arms and kisses her on the forehead.

Molly hugs Mary, then John. "It's been a lovely Christmas," she tells them sincerely. Then she moves to where Sherlock stands and leans down to press her lips to Elizabeth's cheek. "It was wonderful to finally meet you, Lizzie," she tells the baby softly, then looks up at Sherlock. "Merry Christmas, Sherlock." Her face is shining with happiness and contentment, and before he realizes what she's doing, she has stood up on her toes, grabbed his arm for stability, and leaned in to kiss him on the cheek as well.

He's kissed her before, several times, but it's the first time she's ever kissed him, and he can't find his voice until she's halfway out the door. "Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper."

It's not until he notices John and Mary exchanging looks that he realizes he's standing stock-still and slightly dumbfounded. He shakes his head, as though he can shake his mood off, but Mary isn't buying it. "John," she says, her eyes fixed on Sherlock, "could you give Sherlock and me a moment alone?"

John only grins. "Of course, love." And with a kiss to his wife and a wry grin to his best friend, he's out the door.

Mary is very good at communicating what she wants with a look, and a few moments later, Sherlock is settled in the chair next to her bed and Elizabeth is back in her mother's arms. "I think you know what I'm going to ask you," she says.

He is stoic. "I can guess."

"What is going on with you and Molly?"

"Nothing," he says, because it's true.

Mary gives him a rather cutting don't-try-to-lie-to-me look. "You spend more time with her than anyone else, she's at your flat enough to feel like she's drunk all your tea, and you looked like a teenager on your first date when she kissed you."

Oh no, did he? "I assure you that there is nothing going on with Molly and me other than her helping me at crime scenes."

"But you'd like there to be more," Mary says with certainty.

"Don't be absurd."

She narrows her eyes at him and gestures vaguely with the baby in her arms. "I just went through twelve hours of labor to bring your sort-of niece into this world. I hurt in places I didn't know could hurt. The least you can do is not lie to me."

"You already used that excuse on John earlier."

"It's a good one," she says. "I intend on milking it for a long time. And I think I've earned it. Do you where I have stitches right now, Sherlock?"

"Yes, I do know, and I wish I didn't."

"Just tell me the truth, once, and I promise I won't bother you about it again." Her eyes are fixed fervently on him, eyes he loves in a face he loves, and he ponders to himself that it makes sense for Elizabeth to call him her uncle because her mother is the closest thing to a sister he's ever had. And he could resist those eyes if he wanted to, but strangely he doesn't want to. Strangely he feels that talking through his feelings would be a relief. He's always been able to think best when he can talk through what's happening in his head; that's why so much of what goes on in his mind palace is conversations with people who aren't really there. Maybe to talk to Mary would help him calm the slow simmer of emotion that's been a backdrop to everything he's done for the past few weeks.

He casts his mind over the last year, considering all of his interactions with Molly and all of the things he's thought and felt, until he comes to a (surprising) conclusion. Then, picking his words very carefully, he speaks. "If it was ever going to be anyone," he says slowly, "it would be Molly Hooper."

Mary didn't expect him to acquiesce, he can tell, and her eyes are starry. "Sherlock," she says excitedly, but then she frowns a little. "Why can't it ever be anyone?"

He raises his eyebrows at her.

"No, it's not obvious," she says. "Now talk."

"My life is dangerous," he says. "To allow anyone that close to me would make them a target."

But Mary dismisses that idea with a scoff. "It's only truly dangerous once in a blue moon," she says. Sherlock opens his mouth to respond and she cuts him off. "John was your assistant for years and he's fine." She pauses, then cuts him off again. "Besides, Molly's already been seen hanging around with you at crime scenes; there's not much more you can do to make her a target. And if you were dating her, it'd be easier to keep her safe because you could be around her more."

That's true, in a way. But he's not out of reasons. "And I'm not really the dating type; I'm sure you've noticed that receiving and giving affection is not exactly my strong suit. I'm much better off alone."

"Rubbish," says Mary. "As much as you've tried to convince yourself otherwise, Sherlock, you are a very social creature."

He is indignant. "I am not—"

"Why do you think you're always dragging John and Molly around on cases? You know perfectly well you don't need them half the time. But you like having someone around. Even when you disappear into your head for hours at a time, you like knowing that someone will be there when you come back. You convinced yourself you don't need people when you were a bullied little kid, and I get that, I really do. But the truth is that deep down you crave companionship."

He stares at her, unmoving.

"Tell me I'm wrong, Sherlock. Look me in the eye and tell me none of that was true."

He would if he could but he can't; as surprising and unexpected as that revelation is, some part of him knows that it's entirely true. So he changes the subject instead. "Molly isn't even interested in me anymore. She has shown no signs of romantic attachment to me since she ended her engagement, and she's been dating other men."

Mary just rolls her eyes. "She's been on six dates since the spring and she hasn't liked any of them enough to go on a second date."

"Oh," he says, surprised and—he has to admit it—pleased, and some of that must have leaked into his voice because Mary gives him a knowing grin.

"She may have stopped pining for you, but I know she cares for you deeply. And I bet that if you took her out on a few dates, you could remind her why she used to be in love with you." She shrugs. "You could at least ask. What's the worst that could happen?"

"Potential humiliation for me, emotional distress for both of us, and the destruction of our friendship," Sherlock rattles off immediately. "Those appear to be the main harms that could befall us if I confessed to Molly how I feel." And then he freezes, forcing himself not to visibly react, shocked to find himself stating that he feels something for Molly.

Mary, kindly, doesn't hassle him for the admission he just made. She just points out, gently, "But on the other hand, think of the potential benefits: there's someone around when you need someone there, you get to spend more time with one of the few people who you actually like spending time with, and you get to snog the pretty girl you fancy."

He'd like to retort that he's Sherlock Holmes, he doesn't care about _snogging_, but before he can, the memory of kissing her under the mistletoe pops into his head and some sneaky little voice in the back of his mind is wondering what it would have been like if she'd started kissing him back. Wonderful, probably, given how much he enjoyed the kiss he did get.

The thought robs him of any response he might have made to Mary, and after several long moments of silence, Mary speaks again. "You're a grown man; you can make your own choices. So if you're telling me that you would genuinely be happier to carry on living alone, and you genuinely won't mind at all when Molly meets someone who will love her like she deserves and you lose her—because that _will _happen, Sherlock—" she fixes him with a firm look— "then you go right on pretending that you're not completely smitten with that girl."

He wants to object but he absolutely cannot find the words.

"But if you are ready to admit that you are much happier when she's around and you would be deeply hurt if she found someone new and you would really like to snog her face off, then maybe you should consider telling her."

He can only stare at Mary, who is giving him her patented "Stop being dense or I may have to smack you" smile. But after a stretch of silence, in which she waits patiently and Sherlock cannot decide what to say, her expression softens. "Would you like to hold Lizzie again?"

Sherlock nods slowly and eagerly accepts the baby, as holding her gives him something to look at besides Mary's penetrating gaze. After a long few moments, he speaks softly. "I will . . . consider what you've said, Mary."

"Good," she smiles.

"And now, as per your promise, you will not bring the subject up again."

"Of course I will," she scoffs. "The great Sherlock Holmes actually fancies a girl, and it happens to be the nicest girl on the planet and a close friend of mine? Why on earth wouldn't I bring that up again?"

He scowls at her. "Mary Watson, you promised."

She points at Elizabeth, sleeping peacefully in his arms. "Twelve hours of labor, Sherlock. Twelve."

o.o.o


	5. Chapter 5

AN: A guest reviewer pointed out that I had stated Mary was in labor for both 12 and 14 hours; I've now cleared that up. If that was you who pointed it out, thanks. And now, last chapter. Thank you everyone for your kind support; your reviews have absolutely made my day.

o.o.o

But Sherlock does not keep his promise to consider what Mary has said—not at first, anyway. The next few days are a whirlwind of activity; something about the holidays brings out the crazy in people, and as always, the days between Christmas and New Year's are quite busy for him. None of the cases are particularly interesting; he doesn't even leave his flat for them. But they're a nice distraction for his brain.

When he's not solving crimes out of his flat, he's at the hospital with Mary and John and Elizabeth. A mild complication after the birth have the doctors keeping Mary longer than expected, and although John is a doctor and knows perfectly well just how non-threatening it all is, the concerned husband side of him takes over and makes him a bit of a wreck. So it falls to Sherlock—_me, of all people,_ he thinks—to help keep his friend calm and distracted. Mary doesn't bring up Molly again, other than to mention that she came by once, but every now and then she shoots Sherlock very expressive looks.

But Sherlock ignores them, and he ignores the steadily growing compulsion he feels to call Molly and see what she's up to and have any interesting corpses shown up at the morgue and would should like to come over for tea. So he doesn't see her until the day that Mary and Elizabeth come home from the hospital.

This time it's Mrs. Hudson who decides to have a meal ready for those leaving the hospital, as Molly has to work that day. Sherlock was at the hospital already, so he drives home with the Watsons and eats dinner with them and Mrs. Hudson. Molly isn't there, and Sherlock wants very much to know whether she plans on showing up; at first he assumed yes, because Mrs. Hudson has made much more food than could possibly be eaten by the four of them, but as the meal goes on the pathologist never shows up, and afterwards Mrs. Hudson tells Mary that she made extra because she wants the leftovers to last them for a while. So Molly is not coming, apparently, which of course doesn't matter to Sherlock at all, why would he care, it's just Molly. And the burst of adrenaline that shoots through him when someone knocks at the door is just surprise, obviously; he doesn't care whether or not it's Molly at the door.

It is, and the sight of her makes his pulse accelerate.

She's brought by a gift, a beautiful yellow blanket that she crocheted. "It wasn't done by the time Lizzie was born," she apologizes. "I'd forgotten how long this takes."

Mary is over the moon about the blanket, and Sherlock watches her in bafflement. He's never understood how Mary can be two such different people at the same time—she's one of the smartest, most capable people he knows, but she's also one of the most emotional and affectionate. And for a man who's spent most of his life assuming those two things are mutually exclusive, that's incomprehensible. (Sometimes he wonders if maybe it's a failing in his own character that he doesn't know how to be effective at his job but also emotionally open in his personal life. Mary can switch gears, but that's something he struggles with.)

But he is learning how to be a better friend, so he smiles at Molly. "Drink?" he asks, knowing that he probably ought to ask the Watsons first but it's not like he doesn't help himself to anything in their house whenever he likes. But John looks mildly irritated and Mrs. Hudson looks at him the way she does when he's done something dense, so obviously it was wrong.

"No thank you, I should be going," says Molly kindly. "I'm sure you all want to get settled in."

"Yes, I think I'm off as well," says Mrs. Hudson, and bustles off to the kitchen to get her purse.

Surprised and more than a little disappointed, Sherlock shrugs and settles back into his chair. "All right," he says.

There's that irritated look from John again, and Molly shoots both the Watsons an amused glance. "Actually, Sherlock, why don't you come with me?" she asks. "I had a rather interesting corpse at the morgue today. I'll tell you all about it."

Odd, but it has been a while since he's heard about an interesting corpse. And a while since he's seen Molly. "All right," he repeats, and gets up to grab his coat from the kitchen.

Mrs. Hudson is in there doing once last wipe-down of the stove. "I've already called myself a cab, Sherlock," she smiles. "I'll see you back at Baker Street."

"Oh," he says. "You don't want to . . . ride together?" Truth be told, he would rather spend the time alone with Molly, but it's not the most logical way to organize things.

"Not if the two of you will be talking about corpses," she tells him firmly. "And anyway—" she leans in a bit closer and lowers her voice— "it'd be nice for you to spend some time with Molly. She hasn't been by since before Christmas."

Is the whole world trying to convince him to date Molly Hooper?

But even through his irritation, he hears the siren call of getting an entire cab ride alone with Molly, whom he hasn't talked to one-on-one in nearly a week, so he shrugs. "Fine," he says. "Travel well." And back in the living room, he bids the Watsons goodbye, and then he and Molly are walking together out to the street.

"We should have waited and called a cab," he says. "This area is terrible for catching them—"

"Why don't we take the Tube?" Molly asks. "That's how I got here. There's a stop just a few blocks away."

Sherlock physically recoils from the idea. "The Tube?" he asks. "With all those people crammed into that tiny space?"

"It won't be bad at this time of night," she says. "Besides, it's cheaper than a cab." And she grabs his arm and begins tugging him down the street in the direction of the Tube station. Sherlock still hates the idea, but he doesn't hate the idea of traveling with Molly, and he especially doesn't hate the feeling of her small hand curled around his elbow, so he allows himself to be led.

"So tell me about this interesting corpse," he says after a moment.

"Oh, the corpse," says Molly, sounding surprised, and he doesn't have to look for the signs in her face to know that she's coming up with a lie to tell him.

"There wasn't one," he guesses.

She drops her hand from his arm, and when he glances down at her face he can see she looks a little embarrassed. "I'm that bad a liar?"

"I've studied extensively how to tell when people are lying," he says, and then a hint of a smile quirks his lips. "And even if I hadn't, yes, you're that bad a liar."

She laughs. "All right, you win, there's no corpse. I just thought John and Mary would probably like to be alone."

"Alone? Why? They love having people around."

"Normally yes," she says as they turn the corner at the end of the block. "But after they've just had a baby—I mean, think about it. They've been away from home and surrounded by people for nearly a week. Most people want some alone time after that."

Sherlock is quiet, considering this for a time while his spirits sink a little. Molly walks next to him, oblivious, until he speaks. "Do you think I shouldn't have spent so much time at the hospital?" he asks quietly. Maybe the Watsons were sick of him; maybe this is yet another social cue that he's missed; and he curses himself inwardly for it. That's Sherlock Holmes all over, skilled at reading the subtle nuances of human behavior in everyone but himself and the few people he cares about. But although he is embarrassed, that embarrassment doesn't come—at least not much—from the fact that it's Molly seeing this side of him. She'll be kind about it; she always is.

Molly stops dead in her tracks and grabs his hand to stop him as well. "No, sorry, I didn't mean to imply you'd been bothering them. You've been a good friend, and they appreciate you being there for them. They told me that." And she squeezes his hand for emphasis.

In the light from the streetlamp, he gives her a smile that is small and a bit tight-lipped but nonetheless sincere. Molly has always understood him, even when he didn't give her credit for it, even when he didn't want her understanding, and he wishes he had the words to express how much that now means to him. But he doesn't know how to do that, so he simply says "Thank you, Molly."

And that's when he realizes that they're like a scene from a terrible romantic movie right now—standing together on a city street, haloed in the light from the streetlamp above them, hands clasped tightly together (he's glad the evening is rather warm for December, because it means that neither of them is wearing gloves; it's not often he gets to touch her skin to skin). If this was a movie, he thinks this would be a good moment to kiss her. He doesn't hate that idea, he finds. In fact he wonders what it would be like, and how she would react. He wonders if she would kiss him back. He wonders if his breath smells like the garlicky pasta sauce Mrs. Hudson prepared for dinner. He wonders if Molly would mind.

Most of all he wonders what Molly is thinking because she's looking up at him with an odd expression on her face; it started as her usual look of kind encouragement as she was assuring him about the Watsons, but it's morphing into something else, something like surprise and confusion and maybe a bit of admiration. And he'd love to know what that means but this is one area where his usually encyclopedic knowledge is a bit thin.

And then a car horn blasts somewhere in the distance, and Molly blinks, and the moment his over. She laughs a little and squeezes his hand again, then releases it (it takes him longer than is probably socially acceptable to follow her cue and release her hand in return) and leads the way to the Tube station. And she was right, it's not very full; in fact there are enough empty seats that she sits two seats down from him, leaving an empty seat between them, and he's sure she thinks she's being kind by giving him space but he wishes she'd sat closer. So when they get farther into town and a woman gets on with two large armfuls of shopping bags and needs more room, Sherlock takes the opportunity to slide closer to Molly—close enough that he can feel the warmth of her where their knees are brushing. They talk about his cases over the last few days, and the professional conference she hopes to attend in January, and Sherlock's plans to start subtly teaching Lizzie the art of deduction as soon as she can talk ("She's going to be intelligent; Mary's brilliant and John's not a complete idiot"), and they make quiet deductions about the other passengers on the train.

It turns out riding the Tube isn't as terrible as Sherlock had feared. In fact it isn't terrible at all.

o.o.o

"So?" Mrs. Hudson greets him at the door with an expectant smile.

"So what?" he asks as he turns to lock the door behind him.

"So did you have a nice cab ride with Molly?"

"We took the Tube," he says absent-mindedly, still thinking about the hug she gave him when she got off at her stop.

"And?"

"Mrs. Hudson, if you want information, you may need to start asking questions of more than one word."

She puts her hands on her hips and gives him one of her looks. "You know exactly what I mean, Sherlock. When are you going to ask that girl on a date?"

"I'm hardly the dating type."

"And yet you've been mooning over her for weeks. We can all see it, dear."

He keeps his face perfectly impassive. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

Mrs. Hudson sighs and pats his arm. "Of course not." She shakes her head and walks back to her flat. "Brilliant about everything except this."

He'd never tell her this, but he's inclined to agree.

o.o.o

On the morning of New Year's Eve, Lestrade calls Sherlock in on a case—not a dreadfully difficult one, but the victim was the daughter of a prominent politician and the Yard is under a great deal of pressure to get answers fast. And that's exactly what they get; Sherlock has a working theory by noon.

"Yeah, I guess that's possible," Lestrade says when Sherlock explains his theory. "But you'll need to check the body for the puncture mark. It's down at St. Bart's; call me when you know for sure."

Oh, he hadn't expected to have a reason to go to St. Bart's today. What a . . . pleasant idea.

Lestrade gives him a wry grin. "I've never seen anyone looks so pleased at the thought of going to a morgue," he says. "Make sure you don't get so distracted that you forget to tell me what you find."

Sherlock frowns at him. "Distracted? I never get distracted on a case."

"Of course you don't," Lestrade laughs. "Now get going. I've got a lot of people breathing down my neck."

"All right, goodbye, Greg."

Lestrade looks surprised. "You called me Greg."

And now Sherlock is just confused. "That is your name, isn't it?"

"Yes, but—never mind." And the man smiles as he walks away.

When Sherlock reaches the hospital, he catches his reflection in the doors leading down to Molly's area and is surprised to see that he's smiling. How long has he been doing that? Carefully he schools his features before entering, but it turns out that was unnecessary, because there's a scowl on Molly's face and that immediately wipes out any inclination he had to smile.

"Hello, Sherlock," she says before he can comment on her poor mood. "Talia Whitsides, right? I was just about to start the autopsy." And she leads him to the body.

And now he's thoroughly distracted by searching for the elusive puncture mark, and by watching Molly work (the sure, smooth movements of her hands have always interested him, and today he finds them particularly fascinating), and he completely forgets about her scowl until after he's called Lestrade to say that he was right, it was the boyfriend who did it.

But now that the rush of the investigation is gone, he watches Molly pull off her gloves and sees that she's still in a bad mood, and that is unacceptable. "Something wrong?" he asks. "And don't try to tell me 'Nothing,' because you know I can tell when you're lying."

She gives him a fondly exasperated look. "It's not particularly important," she says. "It's just, right before you showed up, I got a call from my date tonight cancelling our plans."

He grows still. "You were . . . looking forward to going out with him?"

"Not really," she says, and he relaxes. "It's just that—he was my New Years' plans. All my friends are out of town or doing things it'd be hard to add myself on to. I don't actually like New Years' all that much, and I didn't really want to go out, but I really don't want to spend the holiday alone." Immediately she looks embarrassed. "Sorry, I didn't mean unload all of that on you," she says. "I'm just—it's been a hard week. I've been covering a lot of shifts for people who have family plans for the holidays, and it's stressing me out."

She seems genuinely put out, and he finds himself speaking before he's even realized what he's going to say. "Then spend New Years' Eve with me."

She raises her eyebrows. "Solving crimes?"

He makes a dismissive gesture. "I've already solved a major crime today," he says. "We can do . . . New Years' Eve things." He frowns. "What do people do on New Years' Eve?"

She smiles a little at him. "Go to parties or clubs. Drink too much."

"Oh." He pauses. "Actually that sounds awful."

"It's nice to go out with friends," she says with a shrug. "But yeah, right now hanging out with a bunch of strangers sounds awful."

But now that the possibility of spending the evening with Molly has crossed his mind, he can't let go of it. And he remembers something John sometimes says to Mary that always seems to make her happy. So he looks at her seriously. "What do you actually want to do tonight? If you could do anything, what would it be?"

She peers at him curiously, then looks thoughtful. "Honestly? I would love to go out for Italian, then go back to my flat and watch some films. That sounds just about my speed right now."

That is a much more palatable plan for the evening than partying with strangers. "Done," he says. "I'll pick you up at your flat at six. Best bring a coat; it'll be a cold night."

And with that, he breezes out the door, and it only occurs to him after he's left that he has essentially just asked Molly out on a date. And he's not unhappy about this idea—in fact he'd go so far as to say that he's looking forward to it. In fact he'd go so far as to say that the prospect of spending an entire evening with Molly Hooper, just the two of them, is excellent. And in fact the thought that, as a date, this is a situation that could potentially turn romantic, is a bit frightening but also a bit thrilling. In fact it's entirely thrilling. In fact, looking forward to tonight gives him the same sort of rush he gets when he's about to crack a clever case, only slightly nicer, because no one's dead. And when he reaches the top of the stairs, his steps slow until he stops dead in the middle of the hall because he has finally realized that Mary was right on Christmas; he doesn't like to use the word "smitten," because that just sounds ridiculous and sentimental and juvenile, but his feelings for Molly are . . . he can't (he doesn't dare) put a name to them, but it would be correct to say that he has feelings for Molly Hooper similar to the way that romantic partners have feelings for one another.

The thought simultaneously concerns and intrigues him, and the part that intrigues him thinks it could be interesting and productive to use this date as a potential springboard; if this date is pleasant, maybe he'll ask her on another one. Maybe he'll ask her on a lot of them. Maybe he'll see if that mistletoe kiss, which he'd never admit aloud is one of his most treasured and frequently called-up memories, is indicative of how he'd feel if he actually genuinely kissed her. All told, tonight is shaping up to be a very interesting night.

But he thinks he'll avoid telling the Watsons and Mrs. Hudson about the date. They'd just be so smug.

o.o.o

It doesn't occur to him until after he's been waiting at Molly's door for an unusually long time (Molly usually answers within twelve seconds, at least she does when she's not in bed, and already it's been eighteen) that he never actually got a confirmation from her about tonight. Maybe she never intended on coming; maybe better plans came up. Maybe she thought, like he's been thinking, that this all sort of sounds like a date, but unlike him she finds the thought distasteful, and maybe he's an idiot for even asking and why on earth is it so easy to fake interest in a woman for a case and so hard to express interest in a woman he actually cares about—

The doorknob turns. "Hello, Sherlock," Molly says, twenty-six seconds after he knocked. "Sorry, I was finishing up."

Flooding relief mixes with nerves and steals his voice away; he'd planned to say "You look beautiful" as an opening line (if she did indeed look beautiful—no sense lying about it), but the words die on his tongue. (It's too bad, too, because she does look beautiful.) So he holds out his arm, and she laughs and takes it, and they're on their way.

Angelo's is full tonight, but the call that Sherlock placed earlier ensures that the table by the window is open. And Angelo, who always assumes that Sherlock is on a date no matter who he shows up with, brings a candle along with the menus. "Makes it more romantic," he says with a wink at Molly.

"Oh, we're not on a date," says Molly.

Angelo is unconcerned. "Pretty lady, handsome man, a night out on the town—sounds like a date to me. Besides, who doesn't like to eat by candlelight?"

And not since the headless nun has Sherlock been so grateful to Angelo.

Still, it gives him pause to know that Molly doesn't consider this a date. And part of him—a large part—thinks that he's been given an out, and he should take it. He could end this outing at any time and go home, and Molly would go back to her normal life completely ignorant of the fact that once, for twenty-five minutes one New Years' Eve, Sherlock thought that he was on a date with her . . . and he was happy about it. Nothing would change, and they would go on being friends and crime solving partners until they both died of old age while sipping tea at Baker Street.

But another part of him, small but loud, isn't ready to let this go yet. Molly might not think this is a date but Angelo is right—for all intents and purposes, it is. And he's never done this before, never had a whole evening to spend enjoying himself with a woman for whom he harbors romantic inclinations, and it feels like standing on the edge of a precipice, a breath away from falling into something new and unknown and exciting. He's not ready to shut the door on this opportunity.

So it's decided, then; he will carry on as though this is a date, and he will observe her behavior and adjust his accordingly, and if she seems receptive maybe he will ask her out again, but this time in such a way that she's sure it's a date.

In the meantime, he'll try to make sure she has a good time on this not-quite-a-date. He already spent the afternoon running his mind over everything he's observed about dating couples, and he quickly reminds himself of some of the basics he'd distilled it down to: _Be charming but sincere._

He can do charming. He's less certain about being believably sincere. But he's certainly going to try.

o.o.o

Molly is startled when he follows her home after their meal—clearly she didn't think he was serious about making a whole evening out of this—but she dutifully lets him in to her flat and they proceed to stand awkwardly around her DVD collection for a while. "Didn't you say you don't like watching films?" Molly asks, which is perfectly true but Sherlock won't have it.

"You said you wanted to watch a film, and that is what we are going to do." He peers closer at the titles on the cases, then is forced to admit, "Though I'm not really familiar with any of these."

Molly is frowning, but suddenly she bends down with a "Got it!" and straightens holding a DVD: _Clue_, says the title. "It's a murder mystery," she says.

He's about to say yes.

"And it's hilarious."

He's about to say no.

"It's one of my favorites."

And that's the deciding factor. "Well, let's see that one, then." It will be interesting to see if it fits what he'd expect her film tastes to be like, based on what he knows of her. But also, deductions aside, the thought that watching the film will make her happy fills him with pleasure. Who knew that doing something to make someone else happy could make you happy as well? He usually only does nice things when he needs something from the recipient, but this . . . this is nice. And the smile that Molly gives him? That's quite nice too.

To his surprise, the movie is quite tolerable. Some of the humor is juvenile, but some of it is quite clever. And the mystery keeps him riveted to the screen; it's difficult to make an accurate assessment of who the criminal might be, as the film only shows those things that the director chose to include, but he has a few theories.

But when he gets to the end and sees that there are three different ways the story could have ended, he is incensed. "There's no way all three of those endings could be supported by the rest of the story," he says.

Molly just laughs at him.

Sherlock grabs the remote. "We have to watch it again."

Molly only laughs harder, but she acquiesces, and they rewatch the film, Sherlock dissecting aloud every clue and murder scene as seen in light of the ending. After a few scenes of this, Molly joins in, and side by side on her sofa, they do what they do best: solve the crime. And if the first time through, the film was tolerable, this time through—this time where Molly is talking and laughing with him—it's undeniably enjoyable.

(The other big difference from the first run-through of the film is that this time he knows where the unimportant scenes fall, so in those his focus is no longer so squarely on the screen; it falls instead on his sofa partner. He knows she doesn't think of this as a date, but they're sitting so close together now, in such a cozy environment; what would she do if he put his arm around her? If he held her hand? He's not accustomed to touching people, but if there's anything he's learned in the last few months, it's that for Molly he'll make an exception to that rule. In the end, though, all he dares is that when he gets up to use the restroom mid-film, he sits even closer to her when he sits back down. She doesn't seem to notice.)

When the credits roll the second time, Molly checks her phone. "Twenty-four minutes to midnight," she says. "I suppose at this point you might as well stay." She gets up from the couch and stretches. "Tea?" she asks.

"Thank you," he says, watching her walk into the kitchen and silently exulting. That whole exchange, and the way she just casually assumed he'd want to stay—that felt . . . cozy. Familiar. Intimate. And he's getting way ahead of himself but he imagines a future where this happens all the time—where they just spend time together, at his flat or hers, without a case as pretext, and where they're both so fully comfortable with each other that she can just casually assume he'll stay for the New Year celebration.

She fixes them tea while he examines the knickknacks on her shelves, deducing from them vacations she's taken, and then they drink it on the couch while they discuss the narrative difficulties of making murders mysteries into films. He does always have such intelligent conversations with her.

And then, with a few minutes left until midnight, she leads him out to her balcony. "This isn't a great spot for it," she says, "but you can see some of the fireworks shows from here."

It's lovely, being out here with her in the night air, and Sherlock casts his mind about for a way to express this. But eventually he gives up and says simply, "Thank you for this evening."

She turns to smile at him, her face only dimly lit by the streetlamps to her left and the living room lights on her right. "It's been a lovely evening, Sherlock." And then her smile turns a bit embarrassed. "Thank you for not letting me be alone tonight."

He looks at her a long moment, and then words burst from him: "I didn't do it so you wouldn't be alone." He winces a little. "I mean—I didn't do it as a sort of charity project. I did it because I enjoy spending time with you."

And her smile only grows. "Thank you," she says again, then turns to look out over the city. When she speaks again, her expression is thoughtful. "Funny how things change, isn't it? I spent the last new year at a big party with Tom. I remember thinking that night that by this New Year's Eve we'd be married, and maybe I'd convince him to take a holiday somewhere warm."

"Instead you're on your balcony with me," Sherlock says. He hesitates. "Are you sorry? To be here with me instead?"

She shakes her head. "No. This—I took the right path, I'm sure of it." She pauses, and then laughs aloud. "This has been an amazing year." She turns to look at him. "I hadn't really thought about it until now, but this year has been incredible. I've been solving crimes—I've helped you save lives—and my career is at a high and John and Mary had a baby and—and thank you, Sherlock."

He does so enjoy hearing her say his name.

"It has been a pleasure," he says sincerely. "You have been an invaluable asset." And then, hearing how impersonal that sounds, he adds, "And a very good friend."

A sweet, shy smile, much like the ones she used to give him when she secretly pined for him, crosses her face. "Sherlock," she says warmly, and she reaches out and squeezes his hand.

And in that moment of electric thrill as her hand warms his, Sherlock remembers a fact he has stored away about New Year's Eve: at midnight, people kiss each other.

He is rooted to the ground. Does Molly expect there to be a kiss? And if so, does she expect him to kiss her, or should he hold back and see if she tries to kiss him first? And what if he goes in for the kiss but she wasn't expecting one or she doesn't want one—

Through the panic clouding his mind, he dimly hears shouting coming from somewhere nearby—a party or a pub—counting down from ten. _Ten. Nine._

Does he kiss her or not? Her hand is still in his. Should he take that as a hint?

_Eight. Seven._

At least the after dinner mints Angelo handed them will have made his breath smell a little less like pesto. Come to think of it, this exact moment is probably why Angelo insisted on giving him so many.

_Six. Five._

Molly has gone strangely stiff, and he thinks it would not be a huge leap in logic to suppose that she's probably wondering about the very thing that he currently is.

_Four. Three._

"Molly," he hears himself saying, his voice strangely strangled, and she turns up to look at him.

_Two. One._

She's so beautiful, standing there in the half-light, and he doesn't analyze it anymore. He just leans down and kisses her.

It's a simple kiss—just part of the holiday tradition—but he is so deeply affected that when he pulls away from her (he's not sure how long New Year's Eve kisses are supposed to last, and he doesn't want to ruin it, so he errs on the side of too short) he doesn't straighten up yet, and he doesn't release her hand, because this is too lovely a moment to shatter.

And maybe she feels the same way, because she is still standing motionless, her face upturned, her eyes closed, and her hand has tightened around his. And he makes up his mind in that moment—forget trial dates and observing her behavior. He wants this. So he kisses her again—really kisses her, the way he has wanted to kiss her for several weeks now. She lets out a little gasp of surprise, but she is definitely kissing him back. From somewhere out over the city he hears the popping sound of fireworks, and he thinks that is a perfect cliche for this moment.

And he has just cupped her face with his free hand—he's seen couples do that before and it feels like exactly the right thing to do now—when she suddenly jumps a little, as though she has just remembered where she is or awoken from a dream, and breaks the kiss.

"I think," she says, backing up a step or two, "that for New Year's you usually only kiss the person once."

Normally he'd start analyzing that statement, trying to figure out exactly what she means, but the kiss has addled his brain a little, leaving him in that calm, delicious state of mind that he normally associates with that moment before he falls asleep, on those occasions when he deigns to sleep. So he speaks without forethought. "That second one wasn't for New Year's."

He sees her hands clench into fists (_not angry, but anxious, and trying to hide it_). "Then what was it for?"

Somewhere below them, a loud and happily off-key group is singing Auld Lang Syne, and the music floats in the air between them as Sherlock searches for words. Finally, he settles on simple observed truth: "I wanted to."

But this makes her look slightly annoyed. "You can't just go around kissing people because you want to," she says. "A lot of people want kisses to mean something—"

"Exactly," he breaks in.

She blinks at him, baffled.

And this is it, the moment of truth. The import of this moment gives him pause—this could end his relationship with Molly, or start a whole new chapter of it—but when he starts speaking, the words flow much easier than expected (maybe some part of him has been planning and rehearsing it for longer than he realizes). "I am the last person you should want to have a relationship with, Molly," he says. "I am self-centered and rude and appallingly bad in social situations. You should want better; you deserve better. But no matter how many times I tell myself I'm being selfish for even thinking of it, it doesn't change how I feel. I . . . cannot stop myself wanting you."

Her eyes are as big as saucers.

"So I suppose the reason I kissed you again is that I'm hoping that even though I don't deserve it, you'll give me a . . . chance." His momentum is spent, and the stream of words flowing from him slows to a trickle. He hopes that was enough to convince her because he's not sure he can manage another romantic speech.

Molly stands stock still, staring silently at him, and part of him hasn't been so anxious in months or maybe years but another part is strangely calm. He's said his piece, and that alone lifts a burden from his shoulders he hadn't noticed he was carrying.

Finally she gives a half-hearted laugh. "Is this some kind of prank?"

"No."

She falls silent again, and then she starts shaking her head. "No," she says. "Of course it's a prank. You're Sherlock Holmes, you don't do romance. And if you did, it certainly wouldn't be with me."

"It could only be with you," he says. "You're the only person I've ever cared about enough to even consider—"

"You spent the last seven years doing everything you possibly could to discourage me," she says, and she's beginning to sound a bit upset. "Why would you suddenly—"

"Because I finally actually know you," he says. "Which is something I should have done years ago, and I'm sorry."

She stares at him, brow furrowed, and then shakes her head. "Do you know how long it took me to get over you?" she demands. "And now . . ."

"I'm sorry," he says. "I was an idiot."

The tiniest smile dances across her lips. "John always says I'm the only one who can get you to apologize." But then the smile is gone. "Is this some kind of experiment?"

He's starting to get annoyed that she's so thoroughly convinced that he could never pursue a romantic relationship. "What would I have to do to prove my sincerity?"

Her answer comes swiftly. "Name one thing about me that you genuinely like."

He doesn't even have to think about this. "That you know me—you're the only person who really does—and seeing the real me inexplicably doesn't frighten you off."

She looks surprised, and opens her mouth to speak, but he finds himself barreling on. "And you're clever, one of the few people I can genuinely say that about who isn't a criminal mastermind. And you're kind, almost absurdly so. And you don't judge me, and you're good company, and you're comfortable to be around, and I enjoy spending time with you, and you're unfailingly loyal and trustworthy, and generous, and good-natured, and brave, and honest, and endearing, and goodness knows I am always dismissive of the beautiful but you are . . . entirely lovely."

As his monologue ends he embarrassedly realizes he has probably just said too much, but Molly doesn't look too annoyed. In fact she looks strange; her eyes are big and her mouth is doing something odd and if it didn't make zero sense in this context, he'd think she was about to cry.

Her hands come up to cover her mouth, and now Sherlock is worried because now he's sure: it does genuinely look like she is going to cry. "Are you . . . are you serious?"

He wishes fervently that she would just believe him already, but he nods.

She shakes her head. "I got over you. If I jumped into this again and you changed your mind—"

"I won't change my mind," he says. "You know better than anyone, I can be very single-minded." He steps closer and speaks quietly. "Molly, please."

She stares up at him, then turns away, looking down over the street. The silence that follows only lasts eleven seconds, but it seems to stretch on much longer, punctuated only by the occasional blast of music from a passing car.

Finally, after what feels like hours, she speaks. "I got over you," she says again, quietly, and his heart sinks as he realizes what she might be saying, but then she adds, "but maybe we could start from scratch."

"Scratch?" he prompts.

She turns back to him. "Like normal couples do. Go on dates. See if this is something we both really want."

It's not exactly what he'd wanted, but he can give her time to get used to the idea. "How do we start?"

She smiles a little. "I have work off tomorrow," she says. "We could . . . get lunch. Go to a museum."

He smiles back. "Or breakfast? If people are leaving their parties now, it could be impossible to get a cab. If it's all right, I could stay in the guest bedroom and we could spend the day together. Are my clothes still in the closet?"

She is giving him a searching look, peering at his face as though looking for a hidden secret there, and whatever she sees makes her smile. "Sounds perfect, Sherlock." And then her eyes soften, and the look she's giving him makes his heart thud. "And also," she says hesitantly, even shyly, "it might help convince me . . ."

"Yes?" he prompts.

"If you kiss me again," she finishes.

She has barely finished the sentence before he obliges.

o.o.o

New Year's Day dawns bright and cold, but the flat is warm and Sherlock's buried under a thick quilt and hand-knitted afghan so he doesn't much care about what's happening outside. And he's so exhausted from the last few days that he actually decides to turn over and try to get back to sleep—not something he does often—but in doing so he jostles the hastily bandaged wound on his side and he lets out an involuntary moan. Moldovan mobsters can be rather violent; not his favorite kind of criminal.

He's tried hard to be quiet since he arrived, but apparently his moan wakes Molly, because a few moments later she's at the door of the guest bedroom, looking sleepy-eyed and surprised. "Sherlock," she says, "I thought you were out of the country until at least tomorrow. Why didn't you wake me?"

He gives her a quiet smile. "I thought you could use the sleep after the week you had."

He tries to sit up then, but he can't hide the wince that his wounded ribs elicit, and she immediately goes into Dr. Hooper mode. "Were you hurt? Have you gotten medical attention?" He just looks at her and she shakes her head. "Of course you haven't, why am I even asking? Come on to the bathroom, let me see you."

And he follows her willingly; she may not be the kind of doctor that does much first aid (besides on him, of course), but he always prefers her gentle ministrations to being seen to by Mycroft's brusque cold-handed doctors, even if they are better at this kind of thing.

A few minutes later, he is sitting shirtless on the edge of the tub and she is putting one last plaster on his shoulder. "I know it doesn't do any good to tell you this," she says, "but you really ought to be careful."

"I am careful," he says indignantly. "I could have been done sooner if I'd been willing to take more risks, but I knew you'd be upset if I came back with a broken leg."

She laughs and kisses the top of his head, running her fingers through his curls, and he happily lets his eyes fall closed. It only took a few weeks of dating Molly for him to realize that he loves having his hair played with, and now Molly does it as often as possible. "I'm glad you don't have a broken leg," she confirms. "And I'm glad you're home early. And shocked Mycroft agreed to a change in plans like that."

He smiles up at her. "I recovered the chip early, and then I told Mycroft that if he wanted it back, and for me not to sell it on the black market, I had to be back in the country on New Year's Day. It seems my girlfriend had tried to plan something for our anniversary and his security crisis was interfering."

Her jaw drops. "How did you know?" she demands. "I was so careful."

He just gives her a look, and she sighs. "Clearly I will never be able to surprise you."

"Perhaps if you keep practicing," he says, and stands to pull his shirt and dressing gown back on.

"Breakfast?" she asks. "And don't say you're not hungry, I'm sure you haven't eaten since you left for Moldova."

It's true, so he says, "I suppose I could go for some toast."

In a few minutes they're in the kitchen, waiting for the toast to finish, and he pulls her into his arms. "So," he says, "Wild Ginger for lunch and the Natural History Museum after, just like our first date?"

She shakes her head. "Clearly," she repeats, "I will never be able to surprise you."

"You did surprise me once," he points out.

"How?"

He leans down and kisses her slowly. "This," he says when they part. "All of this. The past eight years. You snuck up on me."

She gives him that smile that he loves—the one that says she's perfectly happy and it's all his doing. So he kisses her again, only to be interrupted by the sound of the toast popping up, and that brings him back to the real world. "Now, Miss Hooper," he says, "I have promised Lestrade that I will look into a robbery in Kensington on our way to lunch, and if you are interested in coming, we will need to leave here in twenty-five minutes."

"Just a nice little robbery?" Molly says with a smile. "Haven't had one of those in a while. Let me shower and I'll be right back out."

And twenty-five minutes later, Hooper and Holmes are striding out, hand in hand, to take on the world.

o.o.o

fin


End file.
